Out of Season

Imagine my thrill when stumbling around the patio earlier this week I ran across this stunner. It's a bearded iris I bought at the half price nursery a couple of months ago. Since it wasn't blooming then I had no idea what color it might wind up, but I love irises, so I put it over in the "What the Hell?" column and was prepared to wait and see.

My thrill came from the fact irises typically bloom in the spring. For those of you not paying attention, this is, in fact, autumn, so having a gigantamundo splash of say-something purple was okay with me. Also, it's about the size of Godzilla. If this is yet another effect of global warming, it's hard to complain.

mrpeenee Rocks Out

Oh, my sweet little potatoes, life's just been a whirl, a mad gay whirl around here. Diane von Ausitnberg was here last weekend, fomenting like mad, putting up with my sullen attitude and mostly just glad to get away from the fires of Central Texas. She seemed terribly impressed with my dedication to watching hours of crappy TV.

Plus, this weekend is Folsom Street Fair, a festival celebrating fat men's unwise decisions to appear in public wearing their ill-fitting fetish wear. The city is wild for this, for example, the naked guys who hang out in the little park on Castro street decided to have a Nude In to warm things up.

Also, they're protesting a local ordinance that has been proposed that would require people to spread a towel on seats before they plop down on them, should those people be less than covered in their butt-chop regions. I support the naked guys who point out wandering around nude is not against the law here, but I also think simple courtesy leans towards "the towel on the bench" argument. Do I know you well enough to come in contact with your cooties? No, I do no think I do. Therefore keep them and your buttsweat to yourself.

Even though I avoided the Castro today in order not to bump into the naked guys and I will also be missing from the rounds of leather, flagellation, and fajita stands at Folsom tomorrow, don't think that I haven't been celebrating. Tonight I went to a concert with friends where the orchestra played a charming version of the opera Carmen. Some crazy ass Russian composer put this together in the mid-60s as a ballet for his wife. He took the pieces of the opera and reassembled them and then amped it all up with a wacky percussion section. This is the answer for people (like me) who have always thought all Carmen needed to be better was bongos and marimbas mixed in. It was brilliant.

Plus, during the earlier, staler part of the show (Mendelssohn. Like eating a stale cookie.) I was able to distract myself by staring at the very cute bass player and imagining his nipples.

One felt sure they were medium large and firm, possibly perky. I'm sure I don't have to explain chamber orchestras are not normally equipped with men who lend themselves to this line of thinking, so I was plenty glad to see him there.

Speaking of nipples, here's a couple, prime example of the Gum Drop metier.

peenee Paint

In February, right after R Man died, I tackled painting the room upstairs we use as an office. I realize now it was grief triggered madness since I am, bar none, the worse painter in the world and should never be allowed near a brush that is not related to what little hair I have left. I understand this, and yet, this afternoon found me once again slinging latex and taking names. And not even a different room, but the same one I painted seven months ago.

Why? Well, yes, madness is repeating the same actions and expecting a different outcome, but besides that, it was the curtains. Earlier this year, I had some ravishing scarlet silk curtains made for our dining room. They're ravishing. People come over, see them and announce "I am ravished." Ravishing. But then I found an equally beautiful, dark magenta rug. Tragically, just like the tired old joke says, the rug and curtains did not match. Often I would come home to a strained, sullen silence in the dining room that let me know they had been squabbling again. I got new curtains last week, not as ravishing, but quite charming and capable of living with the rug.

I offered the scarlet curtains to Secret Agent Fred and as I was loading them into the car to take them over there, I was trying hard not to feel deprived. Fred is a good friend and deserved them, they'd be going to a good home and blahblahblah, but they're so pretty, it was hard to let go. Remember, ravishing? So when they turned out not to fit his windows., well, let's just say I was not conflicted about bringing them back.

What could I do? Giving them away was obviously going to bring on some kind of designer homo breakdown, but the only room that didn't already have curtains was the office. The lavender office. Lavender and scarlet. So very much not feeling the love there. Okay. Okay. Goodbye lavender, hello charcoal. Goodbye also to my vow to never, ever paint again.

Still, I've finished the first coat without killing myself , I should grind out the second one tomorrow morning in time for my chiropractor appointment in the afternoon (which I'll need,) and by this time on Thursday, I'll be al through. And I will never, ever, ever paint again. As god is my witness.

Criminal Minds. And Booty

Sorry, I can't talk right now, A&E is running an all day marathon of Criminal Minds and I'm only halfway through. A day long orgy of grim, tight mouthed FBI agents and serial killers who giggle. Tip: if the guy sitting next to you on the bus is giggling, you're in trouble.

A big part of Criminal Minds' appeal is Shemar Moore

The FBI apparently doubles as a gay porn factory. Shemar also starred in Tyler Perry's Madea: Diary of Mad Black Woman. I know this because I have been sucked into the vortex of black cinema on the On Demand channel of my cable. The "black cinema" turns out to be all Tyler Perry, all the time. It's as if a "gay cinema" channel was dedicated to permutations on Cage aux Folles. Actually, that's probably happened but I just haven't found it yet.

There is on-going speculation about Tyler Perry's sexuality, to which I respond with a hearty "duh." And it's not his choice of appearing in drag for his most famous role, it his directorial decisions that give away his big mo-ness. Exhibits A and B:

Adam Rodriguez

Boris Kodjoe

stars of a couple of Perry's vehicles and typical of all the men in his movies all of whom are humpy beyond any human norm. It's possible they are mutants. Perry's set-up for the shots of female protagonists show the tender concerns of a dish detergent commercial, while the boys get an on-going soft-core porn thang.

Plus, the women, who are always strong , but oddly mistreated, usually look like they're about ten years older than the men (strong, sensitive, caring, butch, Christian.) What's with that?

Lastly, here is the big wedding scene from Madea's Family Reunion.

Could anyone but a gay man with serious conflicts about heterosexual norms give the greenlight to this in his movie. Yes, those are live women strung up there with some harps. Did I mention various closer shots of the set included big muscley almost-naked men in frames with angel wings and trumpets. Why? Uh, the polite answer might be "I dunno;" the less polite supposition being Tyler owed some trick a favor and this was payback.

Anyway, I gotta go, I got serial killers waiting.

Before and After Pornster

Darlings. I stumbled on this totally scary image over at Infomaniac's; it appears to be an accessory to give a man (or rather, a person with a penis) the startling effect of having a cameltoe. If that is your desire in life, then you have come to the right place, you lucky freak, you.

Of more interest to me is the model since I swear it is the gone-to-seed remnants of a Colt model I used to be wild for who operated under the completely ridiculous name of "Beau Wheeler."

For some other jobs he tamed it down to James somethingortheother, but he'll always be Beau to me.

So, look at the face. Come on, you can do it. Don't you think I'm right? My, how the mighty have fallen.

Stripper Joe

You know how deeply I lust after the enormous hunk o' beef, Joe Manganiello, from True Blood. I have even taught myself to spell his name correctly, the better to write "Mrs. Joe Manganiello" on my notebook should I ever find myself trapped in homeroom again.

Word now reaches us he will be participating in the biopic of Channing Tatum, aka Mr. Potato Head, specifically on that sleazy portion of Mr. Channing's life when he was a stripper. I had to make a short sidetrip through Wikipedia to find out who this Channing creature is; turns out he ground out some G.I. Joe movie. But wasn't that Demi Moore before she got her Showgirl tits? I'm confused.

Not so confused that I'm not already salivating at the idea of seeing Joe peel down to a tiny little thong. Yay babay.

Rocky

Tomorrow is garbage day here in the beloved canyon mrpteene calls home, so that means tonight is Put the Goddam Trash Out Before Your Forget It Again night and all up and down the street the raccoons are singing their weekly songs of love and snack foraging. Have you ever heard raccoons? They make this weird, high-pitched chittering that sounds like when the aliens are chatting in some cheap sci-fi horror.

All of this winds Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat, into a frenzy, thrashing about the room claiming he can take those stupid critters, just let him at 'em. After about twenty minutes of this while I'm trying to concentrate on porn, I'm considering giving him his wish, but these raccoons are about five times as big as he is and fearless. Apparently that comes from living on a diet of tamales past their sell-by dates. I've seen these bad boys as I've been driving up to the house and I've been scared, in the car. They look like they know how to pick locks. If you want us, the houseboys and I will huddled in terror in the attic.

Break it down, houseboy, break it down.