Simply Ghastly

I had a terrible nightmare last night. I dreamed I was living in a huge, blandly 70s condo complex. But wait, there's more, because the ceilings were exposed planks and the carpets were "textured" polyester and both were a sort of shrimp pink. Just ghastly. I think I woke sobbing.

Also, last week I had a dream where I found a baby in one of those elaborate car carrier seats in front of my house on the sidewalk and that therefore I would have to raise it and be responsible for the little snot machine. Annoyingly, I would realize that I could turn it over to Child Protective Services, but then I would forget and go back to worrying about being stuck with a brat in a car seat that didn't match my car. I kept thinking "I don't want a kid. I don't want to be one of Those Gays." Again, sobbing.

I got to stop eating doughnuts before going to bed.

You Go, I'll Stay

I stopped going to movies a couple of years ago. I'm not sure why; they just seemed more trouble than they're worth. Strange considering how wild I was for them when I was younger. I remember when the first multiplexes opened, I would sometimes wander in and go watch whatever was starting. Today, though, I actually went all the way downtown all by myself, just like a big boy, to see Hugo. After a hiatus of movie watching as long as mine, this might not have been the strongest choice, but maybe it was sort of easing back into the habit, I'm not sure.

I had gotten the impression Hugo was a dazzling steampunk adventure; instead it turned out to be a very well made, insipid little movie. Steampunk? Not so much. After about the third scene of the little kid running through the big giant gears, I asked myself "When is this actualy going to start?"

And was that Jude Law? I guess when you're Martin Scorcese you can dial up just about anybody you want for what was essentially a cameo. "Yeah, come on in Jude, well get you out in time for your dentist appointment this afternoon, promise."

Also, 3-D seems like as big a disappointment this time as it was in the 50s. Certainly in the big, rushing-through-the crowd shots I couldn't ever figure what I was looking at.

I did like the lovely homage to the early days of film making, with the studios of French cinema pioneers recreated and scenes both as they would have been shown and how they were made. And I have a crush on Sacha Baron Cohen so OK for him in his tight blue velour pants.

You know what I think would have made the whole thing much more worthwhile? Big titties.

Hot Time, Summer in the City

That big Wall o' Yellow at the top of our yard? That would be a big ass spread of acacia, I have no idea how many because the thicket of blackberry vines at its feet discourages closer inspection. Many local gardeners despise acaica, possibly because it's just too easy, like a drunk go-go boy, or possibly because the trees are prone to falling over in high winds, also, much like a drunk go-go boy.

Whatever. I like them. The cheery, abundant sulfur yellow flowers in winter, their casual tolerance of extreme drought, the fact that I didn't plant any of these behind my garden and now they fill the landscape. I was especially struck by them this afternoon because today was such a warm afternoon, much more like July than Easter, that I spent most it blundering around the yard considering gardening projects crying out for immediate attention which I am still ignoring.

I was plenty glad to have a nice day since just yesterday I thought I was getting sick. And then today, voila, healthy and lazy, yay. Still, while I was trembling on the brink of the ague, or manflu, or menopause or whatever, I realized the one good thing about ailing is staying home from work and now that I'm retired, I wouldn't even be able to pull that anymore. That may be the only downside to being retired.

The upside? Getting paid for not working and lotsa time for porn. Porn, porn, porn.

Porn.

Porn.

Porn.

Tuesday Wednesday Heart Attack

Happy Mardi Gras, ya'll. If you can read this, you're not celebrating hard enough.

I refuse to whine, once again, about how it was all better when I was young and living in New Orleans, because that same time also includes the period when Flock of Seagulls hairdos were considered a viable option.

Mardi Gras. It only happens once a year, you know.

Fredly

How sweet it is to have dear friends like Secret Agent Fred, friends who confirm that one is not alone in the cold heartless universe. Just the other day at lunch he revealed that he had been yelled at by some hopped up crackhead stranger on the street and it was the exact same day that I had been yelled at by some stranger in the Safeway parking lot, albeit one of the crazy old lady variety. But still, it's like we're bound by Karma.

I was just trundling back to my car with a cart full of catfood when my path intersected the old bat who shrieked "I don't have any peripheral vision." For a cloudy instant (cause, as usual, I was not paying attention) I thought she was trying to make conversation with me, in a loud, rude sort of way. Maybe that's how she picks up guys, I don't know. I suppose I could have replied "My cat has gas," but then I realized she was rebuking me, so it's just as well. Did I mention the huge ass Darth Vader sunglasses?

I made my patented noise I always do in these situations, which is somewhere between "Sorry" and "Uhh" but by then she had moved on. Also by then I realized that the Safeway parking lot is not in a particularly pedestrian friendly part of town. Sure enough, I watched her climb into her Pontiac/Buick/Oldsmobile/Whatever Death Machine. I got the hell out of there; I did not want to share the road with Old Lady Magoo if I could help it.

This evening, Fred also sent us a bunch of old pictures he's taken over the years of me and R Man together. They included this one demonstrating my super power of holding in my gut while walking. It was very sweet of him. That queen is a paragon of friendship. Girlfriendship, in fact.

Also, not from Fred, but part of our extensive Houseboy files.

Man Versus Nature

Firstly, I am not going to complain about hurting my back while gardening because I realize every single time I write about picking up anything heftier than a trowel, I wind up whinging about the connection between my yard and my bad back. See? Not complaining. Lips sealed. A martyr.

So let us instead contemplate the rather straggly nature of the pots in mrpeenee's patio. Have I been just the teensiest bit slack in maintaining them? Mmmmmmmaybe, but in my defense the rainy season here in San Francisco is now three months late and the digging up and trasnplanting of the many plants that I have put in the wrong places over the years is best done when said plants are dormant and the ground is wet enough to work without a jackhammer. During a rainy wet season, in other words which is so not happening this year. I blame George Bush. Both of them.

Since it rained last night (amazing!) I was out this afternoon to move a tiny bedraggled datura. It seemed simple enough, it always does. But the pot I wanted to move the datura to had a bunch of calla lilies I didn't want to waste, the spot where I wanted to transplate the callas was behind a heliotrope that's needed pruning which had to be cut back to make room for the lilies. It's like horticulture in a row of dominoes.

Calla lilies in the wrong place.

The world's straggliest heliotrope, desperate for a trim and a shave. With Farrah Fawcett bangs, maybe.

Did I triumph? Darling, of course. Did I lose my balance up in the bed behind the heliotrope and fall over on the other calla lilies I had been trying to protect during this move? Oh yeah, smashed those bitches flat to the ground. But they're tough, they'll be back.

Here's the trouble with gardening before and after pictures: unlike rearranging furniture, plants take weeks or even years to establish and get to be the size you're shooting for. Inevitably after one of these brutal struggles with nature, I step back and look at the pathetic runt I have so tenderly moved and think "I certainly hope I live long enough for this fucker to be worth all this."

Someday, this pitiful stick will be a tree seven feet tall with lemon yellow and chartreuse variegated leaves and huge salmon pink trumpet flowers. Trust me.

Catgas

Isn't this precious? As someone once commented here, "As long as you have a cat, you're never really out of blogging material." So true. Here we have a quiet evening with Saki and mrpeenee, playing solitaire and eating peanut M&Ms as mreenee's foot slowly goes to sleep since Saki refuses to move.

The only thing missing is the soundtrack of Cyndi Lauper's Shine (an excellent, underrated tune,) Saki purring, and mreenee shrieking "Goddamit, what is that stench? Stop farting. Stop FARTING. Immediately." Giving orders to a cat: that always works out, doesn't it?

It's my own fault, I recently accidentally bought salmon cat food for the little tyrant and he seemed to like it so much that I've added it to his diet. Side effects include gas like the fucking Hindenburg coming in for a landing. Dear god. Maybe he's making editorial comments about the porn I watch, I don't know. All I'm sure of is that I found a gasmask site that has them on sale for $164.50 and I'm thinking strongly about ordering one.

More adorable Saki stuff.

Move Your Hips from Side to Side

Secret Agent Fred and I were scheduled to have a late lunch today cause mornings in general are so not good for either of us and Sunday in particular for dear Fred, seeings how they almost always happen after Saturday nights. Sure enough, 2:30 came and went, I ordered, he never showed and about 4:00 when we finally found each other he announced "I went to bed drunk, I woke up drunk and I got drunker." I took his word for it. He's an artiste, darling, these things happen. I suppose we should just be grateful he's not mixing laudanum with absinthe and quoting Baudelaire.

A shame he missed lunch cause it was deeeeeelish. It was at a new-ish cafe I'd heard about featuring New Orleans "French soul food," a description that made me suspicious at best. R Man and I had a long standing rule "Never eat New Orleans food when you're not actually in New Orleans." And yet, I must give them credit where it's due, this was great. Silky gumbo, perfect biscuits,, great coffee (with chicory!) and grits done just right. I miss grits terribly. Why San Francisco, which holds itself so proudly up as a gourmand's paradise, cannot produce a simple breakfast staple like grits on demand is beyond me.

Anyway, afterwards we dug up the only bar in town not broadcasting that stupid Super Bowl abomination. It was a mixed blessing since they were hosting some open-mic-karoke-cabaret thang and the poor, misguided creature attempting And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going should have been shot. Or drowned. Or both. Painful darling, painful.

To settle my nerves, when I got home I turned to the Queen of Soul from the year of ancient history when I graduated high school. Isn't this perfect? Complete with her Big Girl backup singers, Aretha and the opening bass line never fails to pull your pelvis into the groove. Rock steady, baby.

Television News

CSI star William Petersen in a tug'o'war over a bullwhip with dominatrix Lady Heather in some seriously slutty boots, cause that's how the show rolls. What's not to love?

Before last spring, I hardly ever watched television. I had my books, I had R man, I had the world of the blog; I seemed to not have time for it. Then after R Man died and I retired, I suddenly was enveloped by a universe of nothing but spare time. That, my sweet little potatoes, is the existence television was created for.

So I'm watching a lot of it now. Wait, did you think I was going to apologize? Forget it. I feel so very American. Mostly police procedural shows, where the characters are grim but with attractive haircuts and evil is dealt with properly. It is the direct descendent of film noir, writ small.

Having worked my way through Criminal Minds, Without a Trace, Cold Case and the many, many permutations of Law and Order, I am now fascinated by CSI, the one based in Las Vegas. I decided to be methodical in my attack on this long running war horse (it's been on for 11 years) so instead of chewing it up in whatever random order cable reruns decided to offer it, I have been slogging through the DVDs of each season, usually seven or eight episodes each evening. An ongoing orgy. I am now up to Season Six.

This seems like the most effective way for me and it turns the whole experience into something like watching a very long, very slow moving movie. With lots and lots of fabulous aerial shots of Vegas. Never has a city I have no interest in looked so glam and lovely. Also, I have developed little crush on studly George Eads.