Vote Now!

A ginger selling something or the other.  Who knows?

My dears. the polls are OPEN and the race is on.  First the UN votes Palestine as a state; and then that slattern MJ has opened the Kitchen Queen contest over at Infomaniac ; and now you can vote for the smut of your choice at  Cybersocket

Secret Agent Fred and I spent an amusing time last night reviewing their lists ("stars," products, sites and other ephemera) and vetting the prospects. I meant to save the best for a post here today, like this

but I realize now that I failed to note what, or who, the different pictures were of so I just wound up with a big ol' pile of smut.  Regrettable.

Part of the problem is that all-too-common bugaboo of internet browsing: distraction.  Fred and I started out looking up names from Cybersockets' lists that we didn't recognize, but that quickly turned into each of us sharing with the other our favorite performers or auteurs or nastiest or freakiest and the whole thing dissolved into a jungle of unrelated tabs.

People like feets.

One  of things that I was reminded of is how often porn stars (or "people of porn" as I like to call them) turn up with those weird eye problems known as "wall-eyed" or "wandering eye" (Wikipedia kindly informs us this is properly called strabismus.)  Persons less nice than me refer to this as "seeing you coming and going" "being able to drop a dime and pick up two nickels" or simply "da crazy eye."

In other fields of entertainment this condition is more of a handicap, but in the egalitarian world of feelthy pictures what's in your pants seems to cancel everything else out.

And who gets MY vote?  Beats me.  I'm still doing research.  Or "research."  Because I am thorough, bitches.

Here's a partial list of crazy eyed beauties.

Scott Carter.  He's Spanish so of course his nom d'porn is "Scott Carter."  Of course.

Francesco D'Macho.  Nice dick, unfortunate eyes.

Jonathan Agassi. "Hey!  I'm over here! Hey!  Oh."

Jimmy Durano.  I am so ashamed of even commenting on these boys' slight disability when they are blessed with so many other sterling qualities.

Sunday Night at the Movies

As I mentioned, the New York Times groused that Liz and Dick was "not terrible enough," but I don't know what they were whining about, it seemed plenty awful to me.  Puh-lenty.  Diane von Austinburg kept asking what I had expected.  It was pretty much just as bad as I had been led to think, but that was what kept me cringing and moaning loudly throughout.

We debated who might have been better cast in the leads.  I was undecided between William Shatner and Courtney Love as Richard Burton, but absolutely convinced that Liz should have been Lypsynka.

Then we stumbled on a French silent movie that made no sense, possibly because we were all loaded by then, possibly because we missed the first hour and had to refer to all the characters by labels like "Baby Teeth" and "Crazy Wig".  There was a seance in the Magic Room where Crazy Wig's brother climbed under the table, apparently to orally satisfy the guests.  As you can imagine, the whole thing was a great improvement over Liz and Dick.

We Give Thanks for So Many Things

In case you missed it, Thursday was Thanksgiving.

before

after

Let's just move on, but not before offering up sincere and deep thanks to Diane von Austinburg (who blew in town just for the cooking) and Secret Agent Fred, both of whom were great help.

In more up-to-the-moment news, we are sharing in the general slavering over tonight's trainwreck that is the Liz and Dick movie starring Lindsay Lohan.  A great many reports confirm that it seems destined to challenge Plan 9 from Outer Space's long held title as the worst movie ever made.  The New York Time's review actually said that it wasn't "terrible enough."  That's right, they were complaining it was insufficiently crappy.  Wow.  That's just greedy.  Anyway, come 9:00 PM West Coast time, count on the inhabitants of Chez Peenee to be in our jim jams, thrilling to this epic.

Lifesaving bitches at attention in case the Virginia Woolfe scenes overcome mrpeenee.

In Which Fred Causes Trouble. Again

Secret Agent Fred and I were out sort of running errands earlier this week.  Actually, let me correct that, "running errands" sounds infinitely more focused and purposeful than Fred and I ever are.  Think of it more as "We were wandering around and occasionally, errand-like events more or less occurred."  Yeah, that's more like it.  Anyway, as part of our bumbling, we washed ashore in an odd part of town near the nursery I like because they always have a huge clearance sale this time of year to make room for Xmas trees and I have scored some prime flowers and shrubs there marked down to less than 75 per cent of the original asking price.

I wanted to also show Fred an odd little gem near there that's fascinated me for years.  I assume the Silver Crest Donut Shop is Exhibit A on somebody's thesis trying to prove holes in the fabric of time exists.  A grimy, 24 hour joint with a pool hall beer joint in the back, it has obviously never been touched by the brush of gentrification so obvious in other parts of San Francisco.  It usually seems deserted, but the beer joint is so dark, it's impossible to be sure what's lurking around the edges.  Child molesting gremlins, at a guess.  I understand patrons refer to it as "The Crust."

We rolled in and Fred was boggled and started shooting pictures of the out of date decor and semi-antique fixtures.  A frumpy hag shuffled out of the bar and agreed to sell me two donuts, but made her dark suspicions concerning the two of us evident. She repeated my order several times, with the emphasis shifting around in it as if she was trying to figure out what my con was.  "You want two donuts?"  "You want two donuts?"  "You want two donuts?"  By the time she was through even I was wondering what I was covering up.  Did I mention her thick Russian accent?  Oh yeah.

Then she noticed Fred and his camera and her background as a Russian mafia hit man kicked in.  "No pictures.  This private property.  Stop pictures."  We got the donuts and fled, it seemed possible she would have been training to kill armed with nothing but her ratty mule house shoe.

I did get some nice plants at the sale.

The End Times, an Ongoing Report

My dears, we must be strong and face the very worst head on: Hostess Bakeries, purveyors of Twinkies, Dolly Madison snack cakes, Ding Dongs, and other fine, fine delectables is going out of business.  A strike by its workers, falling on the heels of its bankruptcy a couple of years ago has put a stake through its junk food heart.  A workers' strike!  Commie bastards.

You must know mrpeenee is an absolute fiend for Ding Dongs.  Their plasticy, vaguely "chocolate" exterior and whatever the hell that white stuff in the middle was: mmmm, heaven.  And now to think they've been done in by American's turn to more healthful eating.  Go stuff a fucking apple in your mewling little pie hole and leave my Dolly Madison twelve pack alone, thats what I say.

Reports are already filtering in of hoarding.  Can you blame us?

Echium

I have meant for awhile to tidy up the far back corner of my yard.  When R Man and I bought this house 15 years ago, I cleared out all the invasive crap that covered the yard and, faced with a big blank dirt slate and little experience with gardening in California, I started sticking in plants randomly.  My plan: "it'll either live or it won't."  In that particular spot of the garden, I tucked in a couple of shrubby plants, native to Madeira, called Echium.  They've turned into one of the most successful (if you want to call it that) specimens in my erratic efforts.

The original crop.

Cross bred into this.

Maybe a little too successful.  Bear in mind one of its common names is Patterson's Curse because of its aggressive and invasive nature.  But I still like it because it has beautiful  tiny sapphire blue and purple flowers that mass together to make huge clusters up to six feet long on spikes that can be twelve feet tall.  It is a "say something" plant.

And what it says in my yard is "Get out the way, bitch" because those two modest ones I put in all those years ago have cross pollinated with sluttish echiums from all over San Francisco (bees love them) to found a dynasty of shaggy monsters the size of Madonna's ego that have covered a quarter of my open space.  I still appreciate their beautiful big blue blossoms, but enough is enough and I decided to clear them back.  I'm not terribly worried about losing them, I've cleared them out a two or three times in the past and my experience is they will be back flourishing in a couple of years.

Pretty, but trouble.  Isn't that always the way?

So I armed myself with lopers, pruners, a saw and a hatchet I call "The Punisher" and headed off for the back.  This is not dainty Jane Austen lady's gardening, this is more like  Sherman's March to the Sea.  As I was whacking my way through the brush a piece of debris flew up to hit me in the eye and knocked my contact lens right out.  The nerve!

On one of my previous assaults on the echium stronghold, four or five years ago, friends took this little snap which they still think is just the height of hilarity.

"Oh no, you DID NOT just attack me back.  Behold I am peenee, destroyer of Echium fastuosum.  Hear the tread of my boot and know your death, shrubby motherfucker."

And believe me, destroy them I did, having replaced my contacts with my glasses and a resolve to take that patch of Edenic paradise down to the ground.  Which I did.  Take that, bitches.

Namaste, Bitches

Now that all that election foolishness is past, can we get back to discussing more important and amusing things, things like me?  Just for instance.

And what's up in the peenee world?  Our dear friend Secret Agent Fred has taken to forwarding me artistic images he finds whilst out and about on the internet.

God bless Fred.

Also, I have resumed yoga (and can I reiterate how annoying yoga is in that no verb actually relates to it?  I'm "doing" yoga.  I'm "practicing" yoga.  I'm "performing" yoga.  Yuck.  Sounds more like I'm contemplating taking up porn.)   Anyway, I'm back on the yoga train.  I purposely did not say anything about this because there is nothing worse than announcing your plans for improvement and then you sort of drift off, but your friends remember and somebody asks "So how's the (fill in the blank: yoga, meditation, jogging, porn, whatever) going?" and you have to come up with some lame answer that doesn't reveal you failed to last three days on the path to enlightenment.

When R Man got sick and I started seriously taking care of him, I blew off yoga.  I wasn't in the mood for much of anything, spinal twisty flexy things included.  But that's been almost two years and I was stiff and achy so last month: Yoga-time!

Why yoga? Because I was one of the sissy girly boys who could neither throw nor catch anything and couldn't sprint to the end of this sentence, I was always uninterested in physical activities until I stumbled on yoga.  I was thrilled to find out that, sincee I'm double jointed, all those bizarre looking poses are a snap for me.  Hoo hoo, take that, homphobic, moronic junior high coaches of my past.

And when does the meditation thing start?  I never have any of that higher minded crap in my yoga.  I'm too busy trying to get the poses down right so that I don't tear my hamstring (again) and then I'm thinking "I wonder if there's any Butterfingers left?" so not much meditation.

The only thing I refuse to indulge in is yoga classes.  I get in there and the teacher says "So now put your right hand on your left knee...." and I freeze and think "Which one is my left?  Which one is my hand?"  Plus you're always surrounded by these skinny bitches in their Lulu Lemmon yoga togs and their tidy-ass ponytails doing all the poses just a tiny bit better than the teacher.  I know you're not supposed to be worrying about how well anyone else is doing, but get real.  I wind up spending all my energy on refraining myself from slapping them.

So I do my yoga alone at home and just wearing a tee shirt.  I know I'm leaving myself open to a bunch of low-minded comments here, but I hate wearing pants for yoga.  There is absolutely no sweatpants in the world loose enough to be comfortable when one is trying to see how far one can bend over backwards.  Fortunately, I  have no mirrors in there so I'm spared what is probably pretty close to this:

I swiped this from MJ over at Infomaniac.  It was attached to Mitzi's recipe, but I suspect it is actually a snap of MJ.

Goddam paparazzi.

à choix multiple

Ask yourself: "Was this my Halloween?"

 A bowl of leftover candy because no little urchins showed up to extort Butterfingers and peanut M&Ms out of your unwilling grasp?

Or was it this:

Don't you wish it was?

Also, in loading the picture of the candy bowl, I stumbled across this little treat in our files.  Apparently it is one of R Man's old fans from back in the day.  R Man was very popular.