Also, I Predict a Conservative Asshole is Going to Say Something Homophobic TODAY.

The local Business Journal is reporting that a guy I used to work with has been busted for running a "Ponzi-like" scheme.  Modifying the word Ponzi is one of the least tip-toe-iest parts of this story.  I have never read coverage that used the word "alleged" so many times.  That in conjunction with my former colleague apparently not having been charged with anything and the details of the scheme being both byzantine and vague make me think they must not have anything solid on the guy.

What's interesting from the mrpeenee-universe centric point of view is my memory of my former boss always referring to this perp as "That little weasel." Makes her seem really insightful  and percipacious, but since she always called pretty much everybody a "little weasel" what it really shows is if you say something often enough, eventually you wind up right and then everybody is impressed with your acumen.  Weathermen and financial advisors rely on this all the time.

Random, unrelated and really fine booty, cause that's what everybody likes.

Gay Pride 2012

So very much what I was not looking for.

Secret Agent Fred and I celebrated Gay Pride in San Francisco by ignoring the whole thing, waiting until all the boa-clad revelers were down at the giant, messy celebration by City Hall, and then sneaking down into the Castro to have a very late lunch at nice newish joint called Jake's.  It was very tasty and since we ordered off the brunch menu and I was wearing a pink tee shirt, I figured that counted as my personal Gay Pride.

Then we went over to the Fashion Sensation's house and listened to 80's dance tunes and told stories and washed chocolate and cheese down with champagne.  Wonderful.  That's my idea of The Gay Life.

News from 2010

I watched the movie Inception the other night and liked it immensely.  I know, I know, it came out a couple of summers ago and I'm only now getting around to it, but then, I still haven't seen E.T. either.  That's mrpeenee, surfing along behind the wave.

So, Inception; it's cool and smart and complex and looks absolutley fabulous, including the zero gravity fight in the schmancy hotel.

The only thing that held me back initially was Leonardo DiCaprio, whom I've never liked.  I always thought he looked like an unattractive young woman in drag as an unattractive young man, but he's perfectly fine in this.  Speaking of fine, there is also the eye candy of Tom Hardy, sort of wasted in this, but still, fine, fine, fine.

Some of the action is set in a fortress in the snow that so many writers have pointed out looks like it was left over from some lesser James Bond effort that I'll just add how I loved the fact the designers were so attentive to making everything snowy white (the camouflage both sides confusingly wears, the guns, the snow) that even the hand grenade is a pristine white.  A color coordinated hand grenade.  I'm sold.

 I also liked the soundtrack plenty, so I snagged it on ITunes.  It's very somber and moody with low brasses and bass strings growling at each other, sort of like a butch Brian Eno.  But I can't listen to it, it upsets Saki.  Five minutes into it and he got more and more agitated, careening around the room like he'd been up all night doing speed.  I finally gave up and went back to dance tunes from the 80's cause that's what he digs.  So now the cat's in control of the music.  Typical.

Rhymes with Cough

It's Gay Pride AGAIN? Already?  I can tell because the lovely warm weather we had for the better part of a week has imploded and we are back to the San Francisco norm: chilly and gray and foggy.  As a San Franciscan, that's ok with me (I always feel underdressed without a sweater or two,) but one does feel sorry for the pathetic tourists, foolishly dressed for what they thought was California as they stand around shivering and their bare legs turn blue.  I snuggle into my summer suede coat and think "Sorry, suckers," and hurry past them.  Sad, really.

Tourists were very much on my mind this afternoon hanging around my favorite little cafe, Peet's, trying to read as a table of them loudly debated the correct pronunciation of the local major thoroughfare, Gough Street.  There were several brave cracks at it, including the classics "Goh" and "Gow" and "Joff" and one of them even landed, briefly on the correct "Goff," but was voted down by his fellows.  Again, sad, because I'm sure the snotty cab drivers hereabouts will refuse to take you anywhere you can't pronounce to their satisfaction.

Possible gays, but pretty much what representative of what you can be sure will be in the decided minority come Pride Day.

Sos anyway, I'm preparing to hunker down and ride out the rainbow colored madness of it all. I have some errands on Friday and after that, it's me and the cat home all weekend casue I'm already plenty gay enough, thanks.

It's a peenee Life

Darlings, I have had the most wonderful day.  I hope you all did too, because I am a giving and loving type.  It certainly didn't start out as as a wonderful anything.  I woke up with a terrible neck and shoulder ache, the result, no doubt, of being too giving and loving.  Or probably from sleeping in a weird Z shape because of Saki.  Fucking cat.

Anyway, I decided to take some extra Vicodin, which I try not to do since I take so much regularly, it seems excessive.   Possibly because it IS excessive.  Still, desperate times call for desperate Vicodin dosages, so I knocked back a couple and climbed on top of my Cold Pack.  Do you know of the wonders of Cold Packs?  It's a little pillow filed with antifreeze you keep in the freezer and when your back aches, you lie on it.  Heaven. It's the best thing for bad backs since, I don't know, ever.

And then as I was lying there I suddenly realized "Man, am I LOADED."  Vicodin wins again.

But wait, it gets better.  "How can it get better?" you ask.  Impertinent dog.  It got itself better because after floating around in a drug and anti-freeze induced haze, I decided to go to the Kabuki Spa and have a massage.  One of my favorite masseurs, Gabriel, who is large and vigorous and does this foot thing that is the besty thing your feet will ever have, ever, was available, so I was set.

In the steam room there was this charming tiny Asian man with the most perfectly proportioned muscles.  Take your left hand and curve it as if you were describing the circumference of a coconut.  Now take your right hand and do the same thing.  Now put your thumbs together.  Amazing, you just made his ass!  Mmm baby.   Making it even more flagrant was the crisply drawn tan line of a eensy little Speedo. Where someone so small would find one is beyond me.  One assumes he either shops in the boys' department or ladies wear, and I'm not sure which possibility is more alluring.  Luridly alluring.

Better than this.  Imagine.

Also, the Latino guy with hair like black silk cascading in a ponytail down to the small of his very muscular back.  Yes, it's true.

So, to recap, drugs, ice packs, cute naked guys and a great massage.  It's a wonderful life.

Infomaniacless

Tech teams rush to save Infomaniac MJ's laptop computer.  Recovery efforts have been hampered.  "We never expected the drunken skag to swallow it," said Horace Pfellows, RMC Disaster Squad commander

A Good Cry. Putting the "Moron" in "Oxymoron"

I don't cry. I am not a crying person.   I say that not as some testimony to how tough or butch I am (there's an amusing idea,) it's just not how I react.  When R Man sickened and died, I made it through those very dark days without a tear, and not because I restrained myself;  I just don't cry.

Imagine my surprise tonight, then, as I watched the movie 50/50 and burst into huge weeping sobs. Wracking, wailing, misery pouring from several orifices.  I had to pause the movie.  I scared Saki.  I sort of scared myself, a rational part of me watching horrified demanding to know what the fuck was going on.  Could it be more than just reacting to cinematic mastery?  Mmmmmmmaybe.

When the movie first came out and got such good reviews, I considered going to watch it, even though a film about dealing with cancer sounded like trouble after the last couple of years.  Thank god I skipped it; I have a vivid mental image of myself huddled in tears in the men's room of the Lowe's metroplex.  Yuck.

Maybe it was just a perfect emotional storm.  I'm still sick; R Man's death is (obviously, understandably) a sensitive part of my life; and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is both cute and effective in the role.  Still, I just wasn't prepared for this.   I have so little experience with the phenomenon, I didn't even know crying makes your face hurt.  Does that seem fair?  First you feel bad and then you feel bad?

Crying.  What a stupid idea.

How Ya Doin' peenee?

Better than this guy.

Whinging, Part II

Maybe you have the flu.  Or an ovarian cyst.  In other words, we're completely fucking useless.

Whinging

Today is sort of unnecessarily in beautiful in San Francisco, sunny, bright and cool without being chilly.  The yoozh.  I do not care.  I am sick.   A weird, deep ache that is everywhere in my body and no place in particular has taken over, bringing with it wracking shivers and a throat that feels like I have taken to gargling hot ground glass.

I have things to do, notably, changing Saki's cat box and the laundry.  They are not getting done.

Houseboy: decorative, but useless.

It is at these rare times that I most miss R Man.  Not that he was any great shakes at nursing, but at least I could be fairly confident if I died he would keep the cat from eating my decomposing corpse.

On that cheerful note, I take to my bed.  Again.

The Brunch Project, episode 1

Dress code: ties not required.

MJ has called me out on my lack of blogging.  I attempted to claim I was actually blogging by mime, but I knew the bitter truth would out eventually.  So let me just admit now that I was abducted by aliens.  Again.  Fucking aliens.

Fortunately, I was able to escape long enough to nip out for brunch with Secret Agent Fred and our dear friend Anne, the Fashion Sensation.  Unfortunately, brunch was at the Four Seasons hotel.  Many years ago, when the earth was new and so was the Four Seasons, the joint was a chi-chi place of asian fusion cuisine and lots of gorgeous deco inspired furniture in luxurious finishes like silk and marquetry in a beautiful palette of gold and verdigris and taupe.  Now asian fusion has run its course and the menu has settled down to eggs and bacon and french toast, which is ok with me, and the furnishings are looking a little tatty and worse for wear.  Here's a free tip from mreeenee Decorating Services, ltd.:  if you go for a luxe look, you need to keep that shit up.  Chipped inlays and frayed velvet are only okay if you're old money.

The service?  Bad.  We were there late, so they only had two other tables to work and yet they managed to avoid us adroitly.  Miss Sensation thought our waiter looked like "Maria Callas's ugly niece,"but he reminded me of Eric Blore and sounded like Peter Lorre.  You know he watches cop shows and titters a little too knowingly to himself "Oh, right, like that's how they question serial killer suspects."

Food?  I suppose there was food, I don't really recall, something about eggs benedict with a sauce that strongly resembled mayonnaise.  Drinks?  The Creature from the Blore/Lorre Lagoon denied they could make a Pimm's Cup even as I looked past his shoulder to the bar where Miss Sensation and I had settled in a couple of weeks ago to discuss over Pimms Cups the sorry state of our respective lives.  or "lives."

On the plus side, there was a very attractive guy near us for Fred and me to ogle.  At different points during the afternoon, it seemed likely he was going to mount the young woman he was with.  Tragically, it was no go.

In summary, the Brunch Report gives the Four Seasons a C.  And an expensive C to boot.