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.