Happy Holidaze

Sixty years ago today, Ike and Mamie lead the survivors of the Annual Solstice Virgin Sacrifice stumbling away from the slaughter pit. Ike is lost in thought as to which might still be the most succulent, while Mamie manages to cling to her dazed consciousness only by focusing on what awaits her in the White House cellar.

Merry Exmas!!

The Gayest Two Minutes and Fifty Seconds in History

Did You Know Christmas is Coming Up?

We actually know heterosexual men. Straight males who love the furry clam, the pink taco, the innie, not the outie, the hole not the pole. Five of them - no, six - wait, make that seven. Maybe 6.5. One of the straightest of them made us a fabulous gingerbread house. God love him, he knew we could use a little Christmas, right this very minute and he came across.

My favorite part? The tiny little gingerbread man packing a tiny little gingerbread bazooka.

The artist claimed it was no such thing, that, instead, it represented him carrying in firewood, but considering how carefully he's aiming it at his tiny little gingerbread wife, I am not fooled.

I recognize psychosexual dynamics, the madonna/whore conflict, the terror of the desired that straight men have to live with. Of course, we gays don't have all that; we just don't like pussy.

Unless it looks like this.

I snagged this photo from Kevin over at The Lisp and let me just thank him publicly. I think this will be my favorite Xmas present this year.

I genuinely am delighted with the house; the artistry is very impressive and it was most considerate of the old darling to make it for us. I had to have a very firm talk with Saki about not fucking with it. Negotiating with a cat: always your first mistake.

And it seems as if this will be the only gesture towards the season we will be presenting this year at Chez peenee. That's fine with me, I'm lukewarm towards Christianity as a whole. Most of my religious instruction consisted of "Shut up and sit down" so once I escaped and understood the whole thing was a Jewish fairytale about a zombie starring in a snuff film featuring his cannibalistic ex-boyfriends, I don't know, the magic sort of escaped me.

But let me go on the record as being firmly in favor of gingerbread houses.

More Beauty Tips

I wandered into middle age resigned to a receding hairline; the sheen of my scalp was obvious early on. One of my strongest vows to myself was to never try to hide it. Comb-overs, rugs, plugs: ick, no thanks. Still, one day when R Man and I were trying to buy me a suit I was stunned to look in the three way mirror and find a bald spot in the back. I felt betrayed by my own follicles. Wasn't it bad enough they were fleeing from the front? Did they have to sneak out the back as well?

But even once I capitulated on the top of my head, I was not prepared to realize I was also losing my eyebrows. What the hell? In all the cultural bitching about aging we have, I don't every remember anyone touching on the topic of eyebrow loss. More than the sparseness above, I think my patchy brows is my most aging feature, with the few remaining hairs all old-man shaggy and gray, the worst of both worlds.

Before

After

My recent sojourn at the spa/salon brought to light the idea of eyebrow tinting. What do you think? I wouldn't go for the Joan Collins circa 1963 thang, but I think just darker brown than the washed out gray I'm working with now might be just the ticket. It's bound to be cheaper than a Botox party.

Making Groceries

All I wanted was to pick up some milk, bread, oranges and several large bags of cookies. How was I to know Safeway was a stop-off for the casting call of Night of the Living Dead? Every single aisle blocked by shambling zombies IN MY WAY. Also, apparently, a bunch of tourists, foreign to our way of life, stunned by the splendor and majesty of the bagel selection. Look bitches, my list of Very Important Things To Do Right Now does not include standing stuck behind you while you ponder the attributes of different fish sticks.

Plus, while I appreciate Safeway organizing their stores into adorable sections like "Breakfast" and "Housewares" why do I always wind up with something I need that is hidden on the "Random Shit" aisle?

Clip Job

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File Under "What?"

Sometimes I get Joan Jett

and Pat Benatar confused,

I know, it's very odd. I'm not ashamed of this; there are plenty of things in my life much worse and which I am not sharing today, thanks. I blame the drugs. Whether they were mine or Pat and Joan's, I can't tell.

Also, why do I have such a hard time getting YouTube videos on here? Huh? So, go here

to see a video that is both amusing and has a terribly cute humpy guy.

And We Have a Winner

Our panel of judges (Diane von Austinburg, my cat Saki, and some guy from Psychic Friends Network who talks to me when I'm not wearing my aluminum foil hat) has selected the winner of the mrpeenee Sweepstakes

But before we announce the lucky winner, let me just thank everyone who played; you were all just as delightfully potty-mined as I had hoped. It's so good to have some things you can depend on.

Also, our congratulations go out to Designing Wally as Miss Congeniality

for his poetic entry:

it is a pocket sconce.
fabricated lovingly by a charming pubescent boy who adores his mother and flowers..
made in his junior high school art class, he received an A+, and got big wet kisses on both cheeks from his art teacher...

And the winner is:

Thombeau!

Congrats old darling. Send me your mailing address and we'll have whatever the hell that thing really is winging its way to you. Soonish.

Back from the Blind

Perhaps you already know about the wonders of Flexible Spending Accounts. Your employer deposits a chunk of your salary you choose each year and you get to spend it on your medical expenses. The money is not taxed and, in federal employees' case anyway, the entire amount you designate is available immediately so it's like an interest free loan for a year. The down side is any money in the account you don't spend by the end of the year, you lose. It's like a not very amusing game. In December you have to guess how sick you're going to get in the next year and how expensive it will be.

This year, I wildly overshot and so now I'm scrambling around trying to spend up all the money still hanging around my account. Since the pinheads at FSA will not recognize rentboys as legitimate medical expenses, I was considering decorative surgery, but decided to spring for new glasses instead. I picked them up this afternoon.

I assume plenty of you guys are myopic because, you know, so many of you use big words in your comments. Thus you'll understand the thrill of new glasses. Never again will the world look so crisply clear as it does through brand new lenses.

So what did I see, wandering through the Castro, my eyesight all tuned up?

(Of course I didn't think to take my camera, so all images are approximate and swiped from various websites.)

The agapanthus on Market and Noe are remarkably brilliant blue.

The storefront that used to house Earthtones, a fairly charming tchotchke store, is now reopening as a combination wine bar and jewelry store.

What? Is their business plan that customers will get drunk and pop for overpriced bijoux? It seems like an unlikely concept.

Plenty, plenty of cute guys. Reveling in my new found ability to focus, I was looking around absentmindedly and suddenly realized I was staring at an absolutely ravishing boy. Good Heavens.

He had on a lovely olive green sweater, too.

Even as I realized what I was doing, I also saw that he was looking directly through me, invisible as a glass window in his path. That didn't bother me; I had my turn and now it's his. What it did do, however, was make me wonder what it would be like to be young and so very good looking and living in San Francisco. I know, I know, everyone has their own pains and sorrows, rain falls on the beautiful and the ugly alike, blahblahblah. Still, what is like, to turn heads everywhere you go? I'll never know, I'd just be satisfied with his sweater.

mrpeenee Sweepstakes

Diane von Austinburg, god love her, blew back into town last week to support us through the trials of Thanksgiving. Believe me when I tell you we were giving plenty thanks for her, not the least was for her delicious butternut squash bread pudding.

Of course we hit the very best thrift stores.

Alas, we scored ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, except a pair of charming little saucers, one of which I promptly broke.

We did unearth this bizarre oddity.

Diane has urged me to throw it into a competition here. The best guess what it might be wins. The prize: I will personally go back to Thrift Town and if it's still there (chances seem good,) I'll snap it up and send it to the winner.

Hoo Hoo.

Second place will win houseboy Vantius Olivier.

To save time I have already declared myself as second place winner. Thank you.

Dreams of the mrpeenee

Way and away, the most amusing side effect of my HIV drugs are the vivid dreams I have. A few nights ago, I dreamt I was motoring along in an ancient Firebird I really did have in college. Somehow the street turned into the lobby of a large bland hotel. Not that I accidentally drove into the lobby; rather, the route of the street went through it. At least traffic wasn't bad.

I was pulling past the front desk and looked over in the passenger seat and realized I had Mario Lopez with me.

In that way that knowledge comes to you in dreams, I knew it wasn't really Mario, or not just Mario, but rather an android who looked like him and was created for various sexual usage. That's right, I had snagged a genuine Mario Lopez Sex Toy ButtBot TM .

Irritatingly enough, he was naked because I had forgotten to pick up his outfit when I got him. Arrgh, going back to the showroom, hassling with the salesman, trying to find the receipt, not to mention the bar code. How annoying.

On the positive side, in my dream, he would quite obviously need an extra large. Navy would be fine.

Dishing

All I'm saying is we might have a guest here who stacks dirty dishes in the dishwasher like a crazy monkey on crack. Who apparently thinks magic dishwasher radar waves will miraculously penetrate flatware mashed together and clean them even though no water and soap can touch them.

I need to go take my meds.

Sororicide-in-law

R Man's sisters arrive Saturday for a week-long visit.

If you want me, I'll be hiding under my bed.

Before we got married, I kept trotting out the same tired joke "I can't get married and yet I have in-laws. Where's the justice?" Now that we have actually jumped the broom, I still ask that.

I know I haven't spoken much about R Man's condition; it's dire. We had a little chat with his oncologist this afternoon and he said the chemo has done all it can do, the cancer continues to grow and R Man will start hospice this next week. I've promised him that he will die at home. It looks like we're closing in on that; maybe a few months, maybe not even that. He is so weak and so frail, it's hard to watch. Amazingly, he remains in good spirits.

Our friends have turned to and are helping out immensely, especially the sainted Gaye, Tim and Diane. Yay for you guys cause I was getting wore out. I seem to have found a second wind with their help, but this is still a bad, bad time.

So now into all this we get to stir R Man's sisters, one I'm very fond of, the other... oh dear god, the other. Manipulative and crazy and abrasive and, I don't know, any other harsh adjective that you can come up with. I foresee the next few days as slightly less amusing than a root canal. I plan on going into the office early and staying late. I may start sleeping there.

I mentioned below that I have been recently wallowing in Marianne Faithfull videos. I adore her beat up, lived in voice and her Broken English album is still one of my favorites even after all this time.

When it was new-ish, I was visiting a friend in New York and we wound up watching Faithfull's disastrous appearance on Saturday Night Live. Perhaps you remember it, if not, count yourself lucky. It was painful for her fans and detractors alike. Falling apart on stage, it wasn't a train wreck, it was more like watching a ship sink very, very slowly.

I sat feeling genuinely anguished; I loved her so much and it was so bad. My friend turned to me and in a blaze of obliviousness announced "I hate her and her croaking stupid voice." I think it was the beginning of the end of our friendship. Certainly Ms. Faithful survived the calamity, but our friendship didn't.

In Which mpreenee Wuthers

I started out watching Marianne Faithful videos on youtube, drifted into the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain (it made sense at the time,) was struck by their song Wuthering Heights, decided I needed to look it up on Wikipedia because I couldn't remember the name of Heathcliff's son, and now sit here, stunned by the inherent weirdness of it that I didn't even remember.

I do remember I liked the stilted quality of the writing, but until I plowed through a synopsis of the plot, I had no appreciation for the byzantine quality of all the zig zags, double backs, and parallel tracks meandering through it. I think it unfolds so slowly, maybe I just didn't notice its remarkable similarity to the plot devices of something like The Young and the Restless, sort of like Dynasty on the moors. It has everything but evil twins and alien abductions. Possibly they were edited out.

And wasn't Little Miss Olivier a pretty thing when he was young?

More Blogger Stuff

Dear old Alex, author/ess of Café Muscato, wandered off (again!) months ago (and by the way, what could the old thing be up to? He dropped such mysterious hints when he returned it seems possible he's turning tricks for the CIA in drag and too busy to blog.) I still occasionally drop by his blog, just to see if the prodigal has returned. I know, it's sad, sad little life I lead. Suck it.

Two things strike me:

The first is just like last time he vanished, he has left up as his last post a photo of a former Hollywood queen. This time it was Myrna Loy, before, Lauren Bacall. Each time I drift by, their mug shots seem more ominous. Lauren got creepier and creepier, as if she were planning on eating my soul for a snack. Myrna just looks crazy. And mean. I would hesitate to be alone in an elevator with her and her cane.

The other is that even after being moribund for months, Alex is still generating more comments than most of us up and running bloggers. Not only is he getting smarmy pleas to exchange links, he's also got some lunatic railing about his writing style. I always thought Alex's writing was perfectly charming, why this guy feels like flaming him is beyond me. Why he feels the need to flame a dead blog is even harder to fathom. It's like holding a grudge against Ralph Nader. Move on.

Also, in regard to my post below about clicking through the "Next Blog" option above, am I the only one who finds myself in some endless trail of overweight Christian ladies with kids whose names sound like they are straight out of the Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator. ? Am I?

Next

Bloggers:

Do you sometimes feel guilty about not posting frequently enough? Do you occasionally feel that your posts just lack a certain oomph? The answer is right here at the top of this page, right where it says "Next Blog." I'm sure everyone realizes that's a random trail through terror and madness that will click you on through to various and sundry blogs. Ninety percent of them have as their most recent post something along the lines of "Sorry I haven't put anything up in a While!" The post will be several months old. "My adorable kids sure take up all my time! Ha ha!"

Believe me, after you've stared at just a few of these gems, you'll start feeling ever so much better about your own efforts. Try it now. Everyone likes to be smug.

If you do stumble across something massively witty, it's not my fault. Just let us know about it. But no Stale Mom Blogs, please.

My adorable houseboys sure take up all my time! Ha ha!

In the Hood

In general, it's a good idea to avoid the Castro neighborhood the weekend of Halloween, especially if, like me, you don't particularly like the celebration. And yet, there I was, Saturday afternoon, stuck in the middle of it, trying to get to Walgreens to pick up some vicodin. Nothing less could have lured me down there or made the whole thing bearable afterwards.

Castro has a well known, well deserved reputation for Halloween street parties and people (also known as "losers") come from all over the Bay Area to imbibe, but without any clear idea about how to go about it. Scads of people shuffle along aimlessly up and down the sidewalks, all with the same vacant look of expectation that dogs waiting to be taken out for a walk wear. A few costumes, not many and none particularly good, even though it was only 4:00 in the afternoon and a day early to boot. I thought about explaining that Halloween wasn't until Sunday, but then I decided to mind my own business. For all I knew getting in there 24 hours ahead of time was their plan. Get a good spot, you know.

I thought it would be safe to go back today (another trip to Walgreens. Super Agent Fred will assure you we go there daily, just out of habit.) Completely wrong. More aimless crowds again in my way. I was vaguely aware of the World Series and that San Francisco was playing in it, but who would have dreamt gay bars would be awash in ersatz Giants fans? But then, as an authentic fag, I keep forgetting which ones are the 49ers and which ones are Giants. Even now, safe here in my own little home, I can hear hooting up and down our canyon celebrating San Francisco's win.

Just let me know when it's safe to go back to Walgreens.

Haiku. Which I Keep Typing as Haiky, Dammit.

Our dear Diane sent us this charming haiku as a comment of her recent visit:

Orange kitty hair

on my grey flannel bathrobe:

Saki's legacy.

Isn't that sweet? It also serves to remind me that I have meant to revive my Auto Haiku Challenge as a way of raising the tone of this joint. I created the challenge awhile ago, here it is, along with my examples:

In five syllables, no more, no less, describe the worst movie you can think of. Bonus points if you have to show off your Google skills because you can’t remember the name of it and all you can come up with is that it features Roz Russell and Sandra Dee. Turns out it was some tripe called Rosie! Exclamation point the producers’ idea, not mine.

“Auntie Mame leavings.”

In seven syllables, no more, no less, describe your worst date. Bonus points if it was sordid. Subtract points if it sounds too much like an overweight fifteen year old Goth girl.

“He pushed my head down. I puked.”

In five syllables, no more, no less, describe the worst job you ever had. Extra bonus points if it consists of Grim. Taxi dancer. Miss Janey, I’m talking to you. I had a miserable spell where I sat all alone in an empty office, handing out the keys to various hell holes for rent around New Orleans. One Lady came back and complained there was no window in the kitchen, I pretended to sympathize and said something like “Yes it would be nasty to have no light and air in there.” She replied “No, hon, you don unnerstan. Dere’s a hole for de winna but ain’t no winna in it.”

“Slum lord in training.”

Put it all together and you have a haiku of life’s low points.

“Auntie Mame leavings.
He pushed my head down. I puked.
Slum lord in training.”

Now get to it, slacker bitches, report back and pass this along as a meme. Winners of the best response will be allowed to touch houseboy Valdemar Gunderus's Special Place.

Hellzapoppin

Such excitement around here lately, mein little schnitzels. Recently, our very dear friend Superagent Fred (aka UrbanStreetPirate) was awakened at 5:30 in the A.M. by firefighters pounding on his door and yelling "Fire! Everybody out! Fire!" Not what you want to hear in your tasteful fifth floor studio, even if it is a semi-bad part of the groovy downtown scene. Superagent said he ran around trying to find his pants, his glasses, his cat, his cat carrier, his important documents, and his brain while smelling smoke. Apparently he passed up a perfectly good opportunity to scream like a girl, but that's just how he is.

Turns out the fire was next door, but it gutted that building and damaged Superagent Fred's. The firemen (I prefer to think they were muscley and had large penises because I always look on the bright side) busted down his unlocked door AFTER he had left and dragged the hoses through his place to get to the fire escape so they could try to get to next door.

He wound up at his boyfriend's, with his cat and was very flipped out. Who can blame him? So we took him out to lunch in the Castro to try and cheer him up. After we finished eating and were waiting for the check, I decided to nip up the street to run an errand. Half a block down, at the intersection of 18th and Castro, I saw a fire truck turned sideways blocking traffic and realized the unearthly racket was from some stupid heavy equipment drilling in the middle of the street.

As I walked by, I could see it had punctured some line and I could smell the gas escaping and I just kept walking up the street past it. Pollyanna, that's what they call me. Or maybe it's "Stupid," I forget.

I sauntered up Castro as cops were evacuating businesses all around me thinking "I'll just go to Rossi's Deli and buy a meter card and then they can close down." I am always prepared to be delusional.

Of course Rossi's was closed and then the cops wouldn't let me go back the way I had come, I don't know, something about imminent peril so I had to take a tour of the neighborhood to get back to where my dearest friends were having lunch. And there they were, 300 feet from the excitement, totally unaware of what was going on. Cops frantically forcing people out of all the businesses on one side of the intersection and ignoring the ones on the other. Go figure. Maybe their large penises interfered with rational thinking. Again, I don't know. We paid up and split.

And then I busted my shin in the same spot on the dishwasher door twice that evening. It's just one thing after another around here, I tell ya. I have to go lie down.

Good Times, Shining on Me

My two favorite people in the world

This has been a fantabulous week. R Man had been suffering for a while from dementia, with all his conversation consisting of bizarre bulletins from his hallucinations. It was disturbing and heartbreaking and frustrating all rolled up together; no matter how long it lasted I couldn't get used to it. I kept thinking there was some code I was missing, if I could just break it, I could make sense of what he was saying and I would have him back again. Turns out pronouncements about us being late for the party schedule in Berlin are not code, they're just crazy.

And then Wednesday morning, he woke up perfectly sane and lucid. No transition, just boom, back to the uncrazy. I felt like a rock that had been grinding me down had fallen off.

But wait! There's more! That same day our beloved Diane from Austin blew in town for a visit. Last winter, before the cancer and the chemo and the craziness, we had planned a trip up to Oregon to go to a Shakespeare festival. Oops. But Diane didn't bat an eye about skipping the whole thing and swears hanging around us to share in the thrill of four hours in the chemotherapy unit is just what she was looking forward to.

Thursday morning, I woke to the terrifying sound of the garbage truck rumbling down the street and the knowledge that I hadn't taken the trash out the night before. As I came crashing down the stairs shrieking, cursing, and trying to put my pants on all at the same time, Diane calmly assured me she had already taken it out. Could there be a greater friend, a more heroic hero?

Usually her visits include long trips to the thrift stores, but this time, we just haven't had the time and I haven't had the energy. Still, we did squeeze in one, while R Man was getting his chemo. It has to be the lamest junk stores in captivity, but the thrill of sneering at their lackluster goods never pales.

Fashion prediction: Cheap gingham will be really big this fall. Watch for it.

The world's most insincere valentine. Would you put out for someone who this was the best they could come up with? I think not.

Ooh, ooh, also, we were killing time during R Man's acupuncture treatment and stumbled on the Grand Opening of a brand new Goodwill store in the Castro, staffed entirely by trannies. Extremely personable tranies. That is the genius of Diane, not only can she always find the good stuff , she can actually summon a fabulous thrift store into existence. I would ask her about being a good witch or a bad witch, but I'm sort of scared and besides I can't get Glinda's creaky little voice down.

It Gets Better. Really.

I know I've been slack on posting lately. Sorry. R Man is really sick and taking care of him wears me down. But now I am revived by listening to Dusty Springfield over and over, like some teenage angster.

Also, porn helps.

Besides, I stumbled on Joel Burns, the gay Fort Worth city council member's immensely moving video dedicated to gay teenagers who are thinking of offing themselves begging them to understand that things get better. I'm sure you've seen it, everyone has. So sweet and heartfelt and right on.

I should have stopped at getting all teary eyed and just though happy warm thoughts about how outstanding Burns is, but oh no, I had to go read the Fort Worth newspaper's story about it and its online comments, many of which were supportive and many of which were the sort of moronic asshattery I knew to expect. Why don't I ever learn?

I have mentioned that I was originally from Texas. I am, in fact, the fourth generation in my father's family born there. I am proud of my heritage (or "mah hairtudge" as I would have called it in my youth.) All it takes, though, for me to realize that, yes, getting the fuck out was way the right idea is to read some ass wipe's assertion that Burns' list of children who have recently killed themselves to escape homophobic bullying is nothing to be so worked up over, that they should have "sucked it up" and, I don't know, gone on to lead a life as equally miserable as that of the commentor.

That's why I think the "It Gets Better" campaign is admirable. If I could have just had someone say that to me when I was trapped in Baytown Texas with no idea that anything like an escape actually was waiting for me, I would still be grateful to them.

Does this post make any sense? I don't think I care. I have a valium and my bed waiting for me. See ya.

When Bloggers Collide

Jason, the charming author of Night is Half Gone blew into town this weekend and I bludgeoned him into having lunch with me and allowing me to show him the sights. He is totally cute, and sweet, and affable, and, again, charming as all get out. I say that based on the fact he was willing to laugh at my jokes and to put up with my tour guiding, which largely consists of aimlessly wandering around, announcing stuff like "A really cool restaurant used to be there until they tore it down and built that Walgreen's."

He was very impressed with the handmade Pop Tarts at Foreign Cinema.

He was also thrilled with the hills here, a good thing since there are so many of them. Coming from the swamps myself, I understand what a thrill geography that goes up and then comes back down is, so I pointed the car at the biggest damn up-and-downs there are around here and took off. Whee.

We took in the tail end of the Castro Street Fair, an enormous celebration for the neighborhood as well as homosexuality. We were walking up the street past the Castro Theatre and a blind guy, complete with white cane, hit on me. There we were, surrounded by the gay world of San Francisco and the only action I can score is some guy who can't see me. Life is so cruel.

I had a wonderful time just noodling around with the old darling. I understand he and his friends are off in the wilds of wine country, I hope they enjoy themselves.

Adventures in the Kitchen

It's been a whirlwind of cooking around the ol' Chez today. A lovely, rare warm day that we didn't want to waste by being productive, so we just laid around, sluglike. Wandering through the kitchen, though, I noticed some pears our friend John had brought over were at the very peak and demanding to be dealt with. What else can you do with insolent pears except poach them?

Scouring the bar only turned up the dreg ends of a bottle of white wine and one of brandy.

Further, more determined digging turned up an odd bottle of Kirschwasser (cherry brandy) and a tall skinny one of pear liqueur. How do these wind up in one's cupboards? I promise you, I never went out shopping for a bottle of pear liqueur in my life. And yet, this afternoon it certainly turned out to be handy.

I'm pretty sure there are no recipes that include the directions "Root around in your liquor cabinet until you find enough of anything to cover the pears and then go to town." Ha. A little cinnamon, a little nutmeg and voila, deliciousness.

Sloppy, but yummy plates.

We're having friends for lunch on Sunday, which is also supposed to be hot, so I've made vichyssoise, a dish I can cook, but never spell. It's just potatoes and leeks with cream, and I went a tad bit long on the leeks, but it seems to be terribly tasty.

What is it with leeks anyway? I often cook with them, but every time, I act like we have just met. "Perhaps these attractive vegetables will not be filled with grit and dirt and a quick rinse will suffice in cleaning them," I think. Fooled again. So tomorrow we will sit down to a lovely luncheon of potato and leek and cream and dirt soup.

Mmm.

Random houseboy.

Goin' to the Chapel

We went to a wonderful wedding on Saturday. Heterosexually speaking. Just because my queer brothers and sisters cannot join me in same sex wedded bliss does not mean I am boycotting boy-girl unions when good friends are jumping the broom, and that was just the case here.

It was a wonderful affair, you should have been there. The bride was lovely and her dress was the most beautiful one I've ever seen. It was held in a small Marin county town in a really swell little club, a sort of arts and crafts building surrounded by huge redwoods and charming grounds with very unstructured flower beds. Sometimes it really pays to live in northern California.

We got to hang with our good friends, including some from Arizona that we never to get to see enough (hey Brit!) The groom is a rocker drummer dude, so the music was odd, but amusing. When's the last time you heard Rush at a reception? Huh?

All in all, a good time was had by all, hilarity ensued, etc., etc....

Fun weddings. Just another reason to struggle for marriage equality. Although that reminds me, our tax guy told me last April that I had to pay more state taxes because R Man and I are married. Bastards.

Arrgh

Avast ye scurvy dogs, Sunday Sept. 19 is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Blast me off the poop deck! There's still time to score a sweet little pirate patch and one of them smart tri-corns.

I expect Gulf Coast Buccaneer and International Mr. Nude Infomaniac, Mean Dirty Pirate, will be swinging his cutlass, if you know what I mean. If you don't, go ask him, I'm busy studying up on pirate lingo at the talk like a pirate site

I've already nailed my favorite phrase: "Prepare to be boarded and surrender yer booty."

It seems like it could come in handy.

Yummy

Have you ever had burrata? It's a fabulous Italian cheese, fresh mozzarella filled with more mozzarella mixed with cream. To recap: cheese stuffed with cheese. And cream. It is utterly creamy and delicious, as are so many Italian things (see below.)

We had it as a salad tonight with juicy little tomatoes bursting with tomato-ness. There were a number of those moaning type noises one hears when the food of the gods is passed around. Mmmm. Burrata.

Roll 'em

Our DVD player is dead, or meditating, or sulking, or something. Whatever, it's not working right, occasionally denying a DVD is wedged in its little slot despite demonstrable evidence to the contrary. My theory is it's offended by my using this photo in the header here a few days ago.

Bitch.

Sometimes it plays, sometimes it won't, so now besides trying to find a movie R Man and I both are interested in (a difficult enough proposition,) I have to include the DVD player's sensibilities in the decision making process. "Animated? What, are you six years old? Do you want a pony for Christmas, too?"

Maybe it's feelings are hurt that I only watch porn on the computer. The petty jealousy of household appliances. I don't think I can stand it.

Sparkle Neely

Working our way through yet another sad little thrift store and disparaging their so-called goods, Diane and I ran across a rack of bridesmaid dresses. one of which defied our attempts to figure out which side was the front and which was the back. I mentioned once again to D that if I were a Lady, that is, a Person with a Vagina Lady, I would always dress in second hand bridesmaid dresses, and not ironically either. They fascinate me as a kind of art piece. When Diane explained one purchases these gems at shops, legitimate businesses, I was floored. I had always assumed one had to have some little elf run them up for you.

Aside from a wardrobe consisting solely of shiny magenta, coral, peach, fuscia and the occasional teal, I would also have boxes of glittery, glitzy bijoux.

My lips would always be lacquered a brilliant red.

I would totter round town in Barbie doll heels, the sluttier the better.

My hair would be a model of restrained good taste.

I am undecided on the subject of bags.

I would, in short, rig myself out just like a style-deprived drag queen. I see Ladies tarted up pretty much like this every day on my to work, so I would fit right in, and besides, if I had to put up with Lady plumbing and its inherent wacky hi jinx (did you know Midol is just Tylenol, and caffeine? Imagine my disappointment, I had assumed it was some magic, secret elixir. Thanks a fat lot Wikipedia) I would have to demand some polyester based glamour.