The Doctor of Christmas Past

I spent Christmas day quietly absorbed in a marathon of Doctor Who on the BBC America. It is a method of celebration I can recommend highly. Over the years, I had seen the occasional Doctor Who, but never got sucked into full Whovian fan life until I ran across the reboot of the series with the Ninth Doctor. It's apparently a common phenomenon for people to like their first Doctor Who best. Certainly, that's the case with me, my heart nerdly belongs to Christopher Eccleston, who played number 9.

Christmas Day's orgy of the Doctor, however, was number 11, Matt Smith, the man who raises the question "How can such a homely git have such fabulous hair?"

It was a lovely Christmas.

Isn't Christmas Over Yet?

I have not been happy the last couple of days. Yes, it's true. Turns out Christmas is a dreary time for the recently bereaved. I miss R Man, I miss him a lot. Just earlier this month I was struck by how much better I had been feeling and then Xmas, everywhere. Even porn sites are getting in the spirit.

Rats.

But you know, I am not by nature a droopy, morose Goth-y sixteen year old and so I resist. Avoiding sad songs is crucial; anything written in a minor key is deadly. You know what helps? Punk and Rockabilly, my old faves.

and Grace Jones in a Box

So I got my christmas card from dear friend Pee Wee. We were introduced at the Dinah Shore lesbian golf tourney mixer years ago. "Pee Wee, Peenee. Peenee, Peewee.

Anyway, it just served to remind me it's time for that annual highlight of Christas chestnuts, The Playhouse Christmas Special. You should at least watch the Marine Corps gogo Boy theme song. Go here

No, that's not the Kidney Stone I Passed

Part of the incessant barrage of commercials over this merry season is the particularly shrill shilling of "Chocolate diamonds." Isn't that precious? Taking rocks that were considered worthless (Wikpedia assures us brown diamonds have typically been employed only in industrial uses, like grinding equipment. Much like these fucking commercials) and then increasing their market value by connecting them with something actually desirable, like chocolate.

Honey, let me tell you, were I to be a Lady presented with a poop colored gemstone as a Crixmus present by some schmuck, I would replace said diamond in the setting with his left testicle, make a pate out of his right one and force him to eat it. Saint Zsa Zsa of Gabor, if you can't afford a decent diamond, spring for some overly fabulous rhinestone. Or a nice hazlenut praline truffle.

Or better still:

Season's Bleatings

In my earlier post "Season's Greetings" I also meant to mention that on Friday when I was wandering around the Castro, a car passed me a couple of times with the driver yelling out of his open window "Occupy Mindless Consumerism." Doesn't that seem to be a sort of mixed metaphor? The entire Occupy movement appeals to me and reminds me strongly of my hippie youth, but even so, you need to be conscious of whether your slogans make any sense.

Plus, a nice Friday afternoon on Castro and 18th Street is not exactly ground zero for the One Percent's heedless consumption of unnecessary purchases, even if it is a week before Christmas. Most of the other people occupying the sidewalk with me seemed to be, just like me, out running errands at Walgreen's and the grocery and the hardware store. You want to make a statement about Mindless Consumerism? Union Square, a bastion of Tiffany's and Sak's and Prada and Burberry's, seems like a more likely target. Maybe the traffic down there was too fierce.

Which also brings up the point, cruising around in your car, protesting? Really? Isn't one of the complimentary concerns of the Occupy movement a sensitivity to environmental degradation?

Here's what I would prefer to occupy.

Season's Greetings

Our dearly beloved Diane von Austinburg sent me the most luscious cashmere sweater. Soft coziness and lots of it, yummy. I was thrown off for a while when I opened the box because she signed the card "DvonA," and since the card was printed all in capitals it looked like this:

DVONA

I assumed I had acquired a new tranny stalker boyfriend with good tastes in sweaters, which was sort of unsettling, except for the part about cashmere gifts. So I was relieved when my word puzzle skills kicked in and I was able to figure out who it actually was from.

Also, my new favorite drag name? DVONA. It's now replaced my former fave, Tann Ng Bedd, a good thing cause that one was just too hard.

DvonA

A divine

Infomaniac: Too Much Time and not Enough Midol

Fine, fine. I skip patrolling the interwebs one goddam day and that Canuck hag Infomaniac sneaks this in behind my back:

If You're Going to San Francisco

That tremor on the street that you're feeling may not be an earthquake.

[via]

Looks like Mr. Peenee's eaten one too many shortbread cookies during the festive season.

As I warned her just the other day, bitch continues to Ask For It.

The 60's were Stranger than You Can Imagine

Darlings, there are some things that can only be experienced, never described. Just skip to the 3:30 mark and you'll see.

Rock. On. Girl.

Perhaps I am Uncle Sam's Bitch?

I got a check this morning from the United States Treasury for $244.35. I was not expecting a check from the United States Treasury for $244.35. There was no explanation with it, I have filed nothing lately, and have no reason why our government would be coughing up such an odd-ish amount.

Do you think it is a Xmas present? If so, I would like to say "thank you" in a very polite tone of voice.

As a former federal employee, though, I am well acquainted with how da gubment works and am pretty sure this is not them randomly getting into the festive spirit. If they are pushing money into my hands, there is a reason for it and I am on the trail of said reason. To that end I have emailed the office that issued it (Kansas City, speaking of random, since there is a Treasury office right across the bay over in Oakland. Whatever) a message couched in the most respectful terms possible. Again, as a former fed I know getting pissy this early in the game is counter-productive and jokes are absolutely disastrous. Also, this just in, using the word "fuck" in any correspondence with any agency: not a good idea.

So anyway, on the off-chance this is a legitimate payout to me and not some screw up that is going give me a headache for the next six months as I try to straighten it out, I am taking suggestions on how to spend this windfall. Ideas?

Sweet Home

I had so much fun spending my birthday back in New Orleans last year, I decided to do it again. The house R Man and I lived in on Chartres Street in the French Quarter has a sweet little hotel right across the street (people in the rooms in the front of which had a great view into our living rooms and, believe me, they made the most of it, gawking like we were dioramas.) I wanted to stay in that hotel this time, but I couldn't remember the name of it. Digging around on Google for it turned up news that units in our old building are for sale as heavily renovated (the term "tarted up" comes to mind) condos.

Staring at these photos vividly reminded me of a long gone afternoon R Man and I lounged in bed in his apartment off the courtyard. We had spent a vigorous time indulging in various forms of physical affection that are probably still illegal in several states and then lay catching our breath, with the french doors open to the patio while the rain hammered down during one of those fierce Gulf Coast storms. The rain had turned the air chilly, the room was all white and cool with crisp white sheets and R Man, who was very hairy, was a cozy redoubt against it all. Sweet, sweet, sweet.

Scene of the crime, downstairs. Although the doors used to be french ones that you could open even when they were "locked" by leaning against them. A cat could break in.

R man's first apartment in the building was in the slave quarter. That was the term everyone used because these free standing small buildings in the rear of the houses were where the slaves lived. Now I understand the preferred term is "servants' quarters" as if changing the vernacular could gloss over the horrible existence of slavery. Whatever.

Later he moved into a bigger apartment in the big house up front and I moved into the one across the hall from him. We had the whole top floor to ourselves and shared the big balcony on the street, but still had the option (occasionally illusional) of privacy. It was sort of like warming up to living together. Again, sweet.

So now I see these photos of what the new owners have done to the old place, spiffing it up to the nth degree and swearing in the realtor's description "everything is new..." cause who would want all that old stuff around anyway?

Isn't that lovely? The stairs have been added and the upstairs window used to be a much prettier large fan light. It was my bathroom and the people in the hotel around the corner had view into my sitting on the toilet. Fabulous.

My balcony onto Chartres Street. We could stand out there and hear the tourguides wandering along below making up amazing lies about where we lived.

I lived upstairs on the left, R man on the right. Absolute sweet.

I don't begrudge them any of it, I had my turn there and loved the old place even if it was shabby. We were so lucky to make it in at the very tail end of the raffish, bohemian life that used to be possible in the French Quarter. Now it's some of the most desirable real estate in the country, then it was a small step up from a bad neighborhood and I could live there on minimum wage. When I had a job, that is. I just hope who ever winds up there enjoys it as much as I did during that rainstorm all those years ago.

Big Box

I've mentioned before that any shopping not conducted at the grocery or Walgreen's does not thrill me, and those expeditions are rarely the high point of the day, even if they do result in cookies and Vicodin. So I buy all my clothes online and a new batch just showed up. I'm holding off on opening them until Christmas. Isn't that precious? I expect to be somewhat surprised with the contents since I have already forgotten what I bought. R Man, god love him, was never good at guessing what presents to get me and would simply demand a detailed list from me in November. And by detailed I mean not just "cashmere sweater, 1," but explicitly running down what color, size, and where he could get it.

Saki thinks the shipping is simply a superior way of getting wrapping paper and boxes for him to play in. He's a playah.

Ever? What not Ever?

You know I have a long-standing passion for this song, but I had forgotten what an amusing video this is and how sexy Roland Gift's dancing is. Sexy little beast.

Thanks Were Given

Thanksgiving, yes, it actually can be amusing, especially if you cut out all the family drama and sneak off to the beauties of Big Sur instead.

Food was terribly tasty. Nom nom, in fact.

We went hiking along a trail I remembered from years ago as both easy and charming, wandering back and forth along a small creek up to some waterfalls. But when we got to the start, the path made a sharp left and then veered up a steep ravine. After we had slogged there and back, I read the park's brochure and found out the old trail had been the victim of a big fire down there in 2008 and they rerouted it so the old one could recuperate. Burned, schmurned, I say. The end was the only good part.

But then, we went to the beach a couple of times cause, you know, it's California and stuff. Man, was that ever worth it.

Balmy, sunny weather down amongst the gorgeous rock formations and a few notably cute boys just to make things interesting.

Also, we played Yahtzee every night, including the evening where I hit 7 (SEVEN) yahtzees in four hands and still only won one of them. I had obviously fallen in with a rough crowd. Dice sharks.

I know this is not what Brian Eno playing a fast hand of Yahtzee actually looks like, but it is what I think he SHOULD look like.

A Movable Feast

Don't mind me sweetie, I'm cooking, Thanksgiving dinner to be precise, and you know how slightly psycho I get when in my hash-slinging modus. It's true, the total kitchen bitch. Fortunately I am here all alone so no one has to put up with my shrieking and cursing. Even Saki has been exiled to one of the bedrooms upstairs, aka Cat Jail.

We're leaving tomorrow to drive down the coast to Big Sur for a few days and since I suspect the kitchen in the cabin we've rented is rudimentary, I thought it would be smart to get the cooking out of the way. Plus I don't want to share my madness with the friends I'm going with.

So now I've roasted a boneless turkey breast with a French garnish under the skin

My recreation of my grandmother's cornbread dressing, because I am as big a Southern girl at heart as Paula Dean.

Speaking of the Queen of Grease Refinement, I also have gravy. But of course. Smooth as silk, but much, much tastier.

The beautiful, beautiful Cranberry Apricot Ginger Chutney.

And Vicodin.

The vicodin is especially handy since I clumsily tangled with the handle of the roasting pan while getting it out of the oven. Ouchywow.

We had a planning meeting last weekend for this trip and I have to say, I'm looking forward to it immensely. Food, hanging around, card games, maybe hiking, if I'm not too lazy, woo to the hoo, in short, even if we aren't able to share it with Diane von Austinburg. Rats.

Although we will technicaly be at the beach, I do not expect any of this.

Tragic, I know.

Cat Tales

I named our adorable and evil cat "Saki" after the writer H.H. Munro, who used that as his pen name. However, I'm pretty sure the cat thinks his name is "Goddam It, Get Off My Nuts," since that's what he hears the most.

All of the cats I have lived with have been lap kittehs. That's part of the appeal, ten feline pounds curled up purring and keeping you warm. But all of them have always stepped squarely on my testicles when climbing on board. What's with that? Are they asserting dominance? Saying hello? And while it's been annoying with past holders of the Cat of the House title, Saki is the one who moves with the least amount of cat-like grace. When he pounds his lead-foot way across the boys, there is no ignoring it.

Lucky for him he's adorable.

Diane-less

OK, you can consider me officially bummed out. Man. Our beloved Diane von Austinburg was scheduled to come out for Thanksgiving and we were going to go down the coast to Big Sur to hang out for the annual celebration of carbohydrates. Then last month, Diane broke her tail bone. Sitting is very painful, so a four hour plane ride and then a three hour drive down the thrilling but zig zaggy coastal highway is just such a dumb idea not even I can endorse it, despite my astonishing powers of being delusional.

Let me make clear I really am disappointed and feel awful about the poor thing's on-going pain. That said, because I have the sense of humor of a sixth grader, I cannot let go of the inherent sniggering in a bone named "coccyx" and commonly referred to as the "tail bone." I am ashamed. I am a bad friend. And yet, I snigger.

I'm not alone in this. Our friend Super Agent Fred asked her if she cracked it practicing her triple axle lutz. John, another pal, suggested the break had obviously come about during a skateboarding spree. I favor a simpler and more broad reaching conclusion: shenanigans. She can blame tripping over her cat all she wants, there is still a free floating implication of sexual gymnastics gone bad, terribly, terribly bad.

So, now that I have that more or less out of my system, let me reiterate how sorry I am for her. Poor thing.

Houseboy Jinx Nocturnus demonstrates a functional coccyx:

Sweet Dreams

I understand other, lesser mortals regularly have dreams about being faced with an exam or class they have not prepared for, Anxiety Dreams they're called. I can't remember ever having one, which probably says less about my anxiety level and more about my casual attitude towards education.

The only dreams I ever have that fit into a category are the walking-around-Kmart-in-my-underwear ones and ones where I have some task to do that starts off simple and gets more and more complicated and less accomplishable. Sort of the OCD of the unconscious.

Last night I had a lovely one wherein I was chopping up lines of cocaine. Let me point out I have done no coke since George Bush the First was in office and yet my sleeping mind decided it was time to revisit ancient history. I was always a very tidy drug abuser and meticulous about the preparation of coke rails. They had to be evenly spaced and the same size and no messy debris between them. Okay, so maybe my OCD is not restricted to my dream state.

Anyway, in this dream I had an enormous mound of nose candy to deal with and it kept getting bigger and then I realized there were multiple piles. Oh, the burden. Plus someone in the next room was playing Living La Vida Loca and I was annoyed, which sounds much more realistic than an excess of cocaine does.

All the while I was busily railing up, I was anticipating not actually snorting it, but tidying up the leftovers with my index finger and then rubbing it on my teeth and gums. That is actually another element of reality since that was a step I always included when I did coke. I loved the way it tasted.

Anyway, I never did get it all lined out in the dream, but when I woke up I immediately remembered the time I took a bunch of cocaine to a friend's wedding to help celebrate the nuptials and how, more than thirty years later, she's still mad she didn't get to indulge cause she was busy getting married. Set your priorities girl, that's what I say.

You know what goes good with cocaine?

Muscley partly naked young men and Bordeaux cookies.

Chez peenee

Dinner last night? Get real, it was Chez Panisse, of course it was delicious. Even the first course, pickled mackerel, was plenty tasty. I had tried to explain my tepid enthusiasm for the dish when I saw it on the menu (Pickles? Yes. Fish? Yes. Pickled fish? Not so much.) but I'm glad I went with it, trusting in the genius of the Chez. Even more genius were the fabulous quail. Mmm. Baby.

30 Years

Today is the thirtieth anniversary of my meeting R Man in the back room of a sleazy bar in New Orleans called Jewels. Thirty years. I wasn't even thirty when I met him. While the moment is poignant, I'm trying not to be all mopey and stuff and I seem to be doing ok. Still, when he was cremated and I got the ashes back (doesn't the funeral industry's preferred term, "cremains" seem creepier than something as straightforward and accurate as "ashes"?) I couldn't face scattering them, so I decided to wait for this anniversary instead. In April it was plenty far off enough to be safe somehow. Now that it's here, I still dread the whole sad idea, so I'm putting it off indefinitely. My plan is to stand at the top of our backyard, where there is almost always a breeze and toss them down into the yard, someday. Turns out that is illegal in San Francisco which adds a tiny frisson to it, but not much.

To mark our anniversary, I'm going out to dinner tonight with a gang who also loved R Man. We're headed over to Berkeley to the reliably fabulous Chez Panisse. I'm taking Vicodin and a camera with me. Details to follow.

In the meantime, here's some houseboy pussy, complete with Stupid Hair, the bane of cute boys everywhere.

Something Wrong with Strippin?

So many, many people ask me "mrpeenee, what is your favorite big muscial about a psychotic mother pimping her daughter out into a life of quasi-prostitution?" I laugh tinklingly and reply "Oh, that would be Gypsy."

Take it away Miss Mazeppa:

Once I was a schleppah....

Fun with Blogs

Those of you who dropped by over the last few days may have noticed I went all crazy and stuff and replaced the tasteful background I had been using here with one that was a picture of me and R Man that had been run through a warholizer.

I decided it had to go cause it was giving me a headache, but by then I had lost the picture of the fern frond and since I was too lazy to go all the way out in the yard and take another one, we are now featuring our lovely, lovely Datura Brugmansia. Revel in it, because I am also too lazy to change it for a while.

That's just how it goes in Gaylandia. Leave a mo to his own devices long enough and redecorating is bound to happen.

There and Back Again

Outside the Menil Gallery, my favorite museum in the world.

mrpeenee is back from the magic that is Houston. While I did not literally kiss the San Francisco ground upon returning it was only my backache the stupid plane had given me that stopped me. So what were some of the highlights from my childhood home? Enchiladas. That's it. Turns out the sole reason Texas exists is to create superior Mexican food. I ate it every single day I was there, some days snarffling it up for lunch and dinner.

I had rented a Cadillac in order to fit in as well as I could. When I went to pick it up, the guy presented me with an SUV. "I do not want a truck. I want a car," I explained. I might as well have announced I wanted a pony. The rental guy pointedly turned to the fleet of cars stretching away from us. All SUVs. Welcome to Texas.

My brothers and me. I know some people would think it not fair that I am the prettiest, smartest, tallest and youngest, but that's how things roll in my family.

Lone Star

This year marks a significant anniversary for me; it's the year I will have lived in San Francisco longer than I did in Texas, where I was born. Beyond a mere statistic, it is also a great comfort to me. I will be chanting it to myself on Saturday morning, far too early, as I go winging off to Houston for a family visit.

I have a complicated relationship with my family. When I'm with them, they amuse me, sort of, but when I escape back here I find myself with no great desire to return anytime soon. In fact, I haven't been back to Texas in the last six years. I blame George Bush, but the fact that they all, and especially my father, make me sort of crazy might have something to do with it.

My plan stretches no farther than Mexican food for dinner three nights and barbecue and Gulf Coast seafood for the other nights. I had looked into possibly visiting some galleries, but the most interesting one has obviously changed focus, now concentrating on lesbiancentric spoken word. Yo. I think I'll pass.

Trust me when I say none of the boys I ever run across there look like this:

China Doll

I forgot to mention in my News You Can Use from Vermont bit below that Super Agent Fred (proving his absolute superness) boosted a small set of china from the house for me. Let me hasten to add there was more than plenty of other dishware to cover the loss, and perhaps "boosted" is too harsh a term to use. Let us think of it as "taking an advance on his inheritance."

They're the sixties space age pattern on the right, just the thing to set the heart of an aged queen survivor of that era, such as I, to racing.

Of course, I needed absolutely no more china, groovy or otherwise. R Man loved to give me dishes for Christmas and birthday presents and I have been working the thrift store kitchen section for thrity years, so we gots plenty. Not that that has ever stopped me.

The good stuff. Lots o' good stuff.

The everyday stuff. Cause every day, my posse drops by and I need ten soup plates. Oh wait, that's right. I never need ten soup plates. And I have no posse.

The overflow. Some of it, anyway.

In fact, I was back at it this very afternoon. Diane von Austinburg, Fred, some other friends and I are planning a big Thanksgiving in cabins down in Big Sur, the beautiful, rugged coast south of here. Diane and I have suffered through cooking in rental kitchens often enough we agreed it would be a good idea to stock up on various pots and pans, dishes and silverware in advance to take down with us and then just abandon there for future renters to bless us for.

We've all been there, I assume. Kitchens stocked with the filters from espresso machines, the implements to cut hardboiled eggs into perfect little slices, asparagus steamers, but no timers, or pots with lids, or decent knives. So I trotted off to the big thrift store on Valencia Street to begin the hunt.

And what a thrill it was to have a focus and not feel vaguely ridiculous about bringing home yet another bowl. My three rules are 1) nothing can cost more than $1.50, 2) it has to be a Useful Size (whatever that is,) and 3) it can't be chipped. That's the real sticking point. Even if something started out in pristine condition a very short time out in the war zone that is a thrift store rack leave all these poor dishes looking like they have lost a rough fight.

For years, I have resisted the siren lure of plain white china with gold rims knowing that the gilt never lasts long in dishwasher combat. This then is my big chance, cause what do I care if the gold wears off? All it has to do is last through a couple of dinners and then it's "So long sucker."

Of course in the middle of my "Just buying for a one way trip to Big Sur" I ran across a most charming little Staffordshire bowl and a Wedgewood salad plate, $1.50 each. What was I going to do, pass them up? I don't think so. Turns out I am, after all, a big ole china queen.

I also snagged a small-ish box for the chargers and cables and other electronica ephemera that are running over the basket they currently reside in, but Saki has laid claim to it.

Cats: utilizing their inherent cuteness in service to some diabolical plot they are then too lazy to execute.

There and Back Again

Vermont is lovely this time of year. Super Agent Fred's parents had very kindly invited me to tag along with the old darling when he went up to visit them in their ski house, very possibly with the laughable idea I would keep him out of trouble. I couldn't even keep him out of the vicodin. Wait, wait, that was me. Never mind.

All photos courtesy (more or less) Super Agent Fred because my goddam camera battery was dead. Again.

It was very, very pretty, perfect weather, Tim's mother and stepfather are charming and cool, as were the various friends and relations also visiting. Tom, the stepfather, had built the house as a base for his skiing proclivities and also as a rental. Two units, with a total of seven bedrooms, three or four bathrooms, two fireplaces and two kitchens, both of which were very much of the temporary kitchen ilk we've come to know over the years. In other words, no pot to boil pasta in, lots of odd implements (none of them useful,) and TWENTY ONE skillets. I counted. I also cooked every night.

The last evening, there was lots of hemming and hawing about "We can go out to eat...." "We'll need to figure out ...." "Where does everyone..." "Reservations...." and other sentences trailing off into the land of the vague until I finally broke down and offered to cook. Again. It's amazing how fast vagueness can turn into solidarity and agreement in the face of somebody else making chicken pot pie.

I had a lovely time.

Dolls continue to haunt me

Apparently even New England comes equipped with hillbillies

I also heard about Diane von Austinburg's crack claiming I looked unnatural in nature.

I laughed, but I managed to keep a very lemony look on my face. So there.