And a Fine Skarbakka to You, Too

I usually leave posting random art to Thombeau and TJB, mostly because they do a better job than me, but also because not doing so would leave less time for me to discuss me, and isn't that what this blog thing is all about? Thank you.

Nevetheless, I found this photo over at an odd Japanese blog called Rotted Peach. I don't know why I'm so taken with it, except for the obvious beauty of his ass, which is peach-like, but not rotten. The photo has the words "Kerry-Skarbakka" beneath it, but as my Japanese is non-existent, I can't tell if that's the photographer, the model, a sex act, or the brand of bathtub. I think I prefer not to know.

Adventures in Old Crap, and a Little Family History

Something's simply never change. I was running errands on Castro Street, minding my own beeswax, when I was sucked into the vortex of a huge garage sale. Two queens who had been antique dealers were cleaning out their backrooms . Fabulosity ensued. I apologize publicly now for cheating on Diane von Austinburg by running around to a tag sale without her.

I was poking around looking for a lampshade when I ran across a bread plate and then, later, a small salad plate both in a pattern that matched some cups and saucers I had inherited from my great aunt, Lucille.

Lucille, I should mention, was a firecracker. Her father was a butcher and worked for the railroad and was generally a small step above actual poverty. Lucille (my family always called her Ciel) had had enough of that by the time she grew up so she got herself a rich husband, got the hell out of south Texas, never looked back and proceeded to fill up her house with Nice Things. She is a hero to me.

Anyway, I was standing there admiring the china (which is Royal Albert china. A very fine line that i always get confused and call Prince Albert,

which I shudder to bring up knowing all the low class piercing jokes that opens itself to) when one of the guys running the sale volunteered that they had a bunch more. The next thing I knew I had sprung $80 for 14 luncheon plates, 4 dinner plates, 5 cups and saucers, the salad plate and the bread plate. He actually only asked $75, but I didn't have change.

Do I need any more china? No I do not need any more china. R Man enjoyed giving me very nice china and porcelain as a presents and I have a sizable closet filled with it. And now I have some more. The pattern is called Canton.

And then, because I was on a roll, I snagged two very pretty silk damask curtain panels.

Have I mentioned our house is very Brady Bunch plain ass modern and is NOT THE PLACE for silk damask and mahogany Georgian furniture, but that's what I keep dragging in. Still, I talked the guy down to 15 bucks for the pair, they're beautiful heavy fabric, lined with silk and in good shape, except a little musty, but I'm airing them out on the patio, so I expect that to pass. Saki seemed very interested in them when I brought them in, and I noticed a tore up place on the lining right at cat level, so I assume they have had a Kitteh-centric existence. Again, OK by me.

At Last, the Truth Can Be Revealed

mrpeenee is actually ghost-written by an orange cat.

But you knew that, right?

Traffic Report

The road down through the canyon to our street is undergoing crazy intense construction, as is the intersection at the top of the hill. Combined, this means traffic backs way the hell up all over the place.

Houseboy Muncie Mufftard sometimes gets out and walks.

mrpeenee attempts to be mindful of this at all times and vigilant about taking the back way home instead. The problem is, the intersection to turn off for said back way is designed in such a way that you can see the dreadful traffic jam waiting for you only if you fail to take a left at the light. And then, because traffic engineers are sadistic pervy nerds, there is no way to get off the street until the other side of the most dense snarl of cars, trucks, and weeping, possibly suicidal drivers seen since Eisenhower was in office.

Thus, if one is cruising home pondering deeply about how Liza Minelli and the Pet Shop Boys ever wound up in the same studio at the same time one can sail right through the back way intersection and be well and truly stuck. This just in: shrieking "Goddamit, goddamit, goddamit" does nothing to alleviate the situation.

Darn

Word reaches us through Infomaniac and other, more reliable sources, that in other parts of the world it is, in fact, both winter and cold. Infomaniac had a link to a short video of people in that Canadia place spitting out tiny little ice cubes, or something. I couldn't watch it all, I'm just too delicate. I just filed it under the immense dossier of "Why I Pay So Goddam Much to Live in California." The highs today were in the mid-60s. There were no lows.

Nevertheless, be assured there are drawbacks to paradise. For instance, the ratio here of crazy, smelly guys on the subway to people I don't mind sitting next to is really skewed the wrong way. Also, my feet are always cold. Thus I wear socks around the house instead of simply going barefoot the way god intended. R Man gave me cashmere socks a couple of Christmases ago and I love them. Soft, soft, soft and cozy, they are perfect for keeping my little piggies toasty.

Alas, they wear out faster than toilet paper, so now I have a sizeable collection of socks with wore out heels. The answer? I have taken up darning, like some sensible English spinster lady. It's not hard. You stitch a few rows right to left below the hole to anchor the darn, then across the hole and then stitch up and down, weaving the yarn through the left to right rows.

Tragically, my efforts so far look a lot like our old friend the crazy monkey on crack had knocked them out.

Also, since I'm using a coral colored yarn on my black socks, the effect that I've just stepped in a big wad of bubble gum is striking. Still, it works, and these socks are $30 a pair, so the four I've mended so far represent half of a massage. With a happy ending. And that's a good thing.

Going On

People ask me "How are you doing sweetie?" and I say "OK." It's the truth. I miss R Man, sadness wells up like a bubble sometimes, but dissipates. I am not distraught or inconsolable. Victorian writers had a saying "Sorrow is a deep well...." Typical of them to speak to sorrow, but not happiness. I suppose they thought of cheerfulness more as an attractive puddle. I think the saying means you can never sate your grief, the more you allow yourself to be sad, the sadder you feel. I know that's true for me anyway. I mope, therefore I am mopey.

Fortunately, our friends have surged around offering comfort and joy, including all my blog brotherhood, so thank you all, thank you very much. Every single comment has been a bright spot in a dim time and I appreciate them.

Also, Diane von Austinburg has been visiting since Monday, charming as always, even though the thrift stores we've visited (strictly as a form of grief therapy) seem to be suffering from quality deprivation. I'm sure crack houses have better yard sales.

I'm trying to focus on not being morose and I've decided to take a substantially long break from work. My days so far consist of sleeping late, taking naps and going to bed early with HGTV marathons squeezed in between. It's OK with me.

Our cat Saki is very attentive and insists on sitting on a pillow on my lap while I'm at the computer. It's sort of sweet and annoying in equal parts, especially since he sometimes insists on making editorial comments in the form of biting me.

RIP

R Man

November 10, 1948 - January 14, 2011

R Man died early this morning. It was very peaceful; I was holding his hand telling him I loved him and he stopped breathing.

When he had my wedding ring engraved, rather than use the dates, he had them inscribe the Latin phrase In saecula saeculorum "Forever and ever."

R Man and Me

I've been putting off posting any updates about R Man for months. Donna Lethal wrote me weeks ago and asked about us and I callously ignored her sweet note; I hope she accepts this as an apology and a reply.

R Man is very weak. He can no longer get out of bed and swallowing has become very difficult; he chokes on water. He is rarely lucid and often seems to be quietly hallucinating. This evening Secret Agent Fred and I were unable to wake him up to give him some medicine. He's just sort of dazed, asleep with his eyes open. Considering the range of indignities that come with this level of invalidism, I guess that's just as well, at least he is unaware of them. On the other hand he does not seem distressed or unhappy and he's here at home. It is the end I would have chosen for him, I suppose.

As for me, I am pretty much all right. Honestly. The worst part of all this seems to have been earlier this summer. At that time, R Man as an individual, someone whom you could engage in conversation, who could make bad, bad jokes, who could remember the life we had made together faded and disappeared. The man I loved was gone and I was grief stricken and angry and crazy and it was a bad time.

So now I'm taking care of the physical remains. I don't begrudge it, I still love him and would have this no other way. It's just different.

If I ever imagined this sad time, I pictured the grief and wondered how I would get through it. I never thought about the physical part, never dreamed that the hard work of it would be the defining element. Let me take time now to give a big shout out to our many friends who have been such an enormous support to me through this, especially Super Agent Fred, John, Diane, and Gaye. Angels with dirty faces, one and all.

So why have I ignored all this in favor of chatting about bad movies and houseboys? In part because it just doesn't seem to fit here. Also though, in reading other people who are going through or have gone through this, the same phrase comes up over and over again: "I just want my old life back." I don't want enlightenment, or piles of gold, or armies of buttboys; I just want to go back to sitting around the fire reading with R Man. I want my old life back, but that's gone, that's just how it is. But my blog has remained a tiny sliver of what I had before and I would like to cling to that.

So. I don't think I will be talking about R Man again, until the end comes. Honestly, I can't imagine that will be very long. When it does come, I know I can rely on you guys for internet based support. Thanks.

Thank You, Infomaniac

The always charming Infomaniac posted a shot from Rocky Horror Picture Show which reminded me I hadn't seen it in ages, so I scurried over to Netflix and watched it. I wanted to make ammends to Saki for forcing him to sit through part of Riverworld.

He dug it.

I've always been most taken with Rocky, Peter Hinwood.

But I had forgotten how very humpalicious Barry Bostwick is, especially in a bustier.

Why I Only Watch Decorating Shows

I'm sorry to have been so slack in posting, but I've been tied up watching bad movies on Netflix. It's a demanding life. Most recently, I was sucked into Riverworld, which turned out to be an absolute dog, a barking dog. It was based (pretty loosely) on some old favorite science fiction novels by Philip Jose Farmer, but took so much license with the original that it wound up as generic television gibberish. The actors had all the depth of Barbie and Ken and the script is moronic.

Saki thought the pacing was erratic.

Hair Don't

Gosh golly, quick, somebody call The Hair Hall of Fame Hotline, I got a hairdo emergency.

It all started so innocently. I went in to get my hair did cheerful as all get out, totally unaware of the horror that lay ahead. That's when it all went so wrong, so tragically wrong: my regular beauty operator was not there. I was so stunned by the catastrophe, I actually agreed to let one of the other beautician take a crack at my coiffure. What a fool I was. I should have known no one understands my hair like Jeff.

And now, now that it's too late, all I can do is weep bitterly. I've tried voodoo, the Psychic Friends Network, pulling on it, but nothing helps. I have to go find my goddam turban.