Thursday, January 31, 2013

Let's See the Good Stuff

This afternoon, in the Castro, I was loading up the parking meter and thinking, bitterly, that soon it will be cheaper to just take the ticket when Secret Agent Fred appeared at my elbow and gleefully announced "There's a cute naked guy down at Naked Guy Park."

You have to understand, this is an occurrence of no small rarity.  For the last couple of years, a smallish park a the intersection of Castro and Market Streets has been the gathering for a bunch of guys who like to hang around naked.  Part of San Francisco's municipally freethinking traits is that that was legal.  Of course, as everyone agreed, only the people you least wanted to see naked participated in this, but still I sort of applauded the idea of it.

Then last fall the supervisor for the district managed to push through an ordinance that banned public nudity.  There was lots of "Who will think of The Children?" associated with the effort.  I was not impressed.  I think if you don't want your precious spawn to see naked wieners it should be up to you to prevent them from doing so.  Plus it's 2013.  What kind of shut-in brat hasn't seen all the naked people he wants to?

The ordinance passed just as the weather changed and it was too chilly for even the most devoted buff lover to flash his bits so it seemed sort of like a done deal.  Lately, though, as the season as warmed back up, the nudists have turned out to protest the law.  I say "Right on, fly that freak flag," but again, so very much not who I want to see.  You know those flabby, wrinkledy unfortunates MJ features over at Infomaniac?  Think about a small parkfull of them, standing between you and the coffee you need so badly.

Thus, Fred's excitement at the all too rare exception.  He was moved to provide photographic proof

Thank you Fred.  I have no idea what's up with the red chick.

Since I have a background in marketing, I am happy to provide an alternative to the protestors: pay cute guys to roam bare butt.  You want to win the doubters' hearts and minds?  Flash something like this a few times a day for a couple of weeks and see how quick all those nattering naybobs jump on your bandwagon.

The Brunch Project, Part 3

Today was one of those lovely California winter days, warm and sunny and blue with the streets jammed full of cute guys in tee shirts.  If you had seen the arms on this redhead in the subway, you would join me in cheering on global warming.

I was out in their midst because I had a doctor appointment down in the excessively touristy neighborhood of Union Square.  Since Secret Agent Fred lives near there, we agreed to join up for an afternoon of boy ogling and brunch.  I know 4:00 pm is not considered "brunch" by many of the narrow minded but since I don't get up until 2:00 in the afternoon any more, I figure it's my brunch if I say so.  Bitches.

Trying to eat in the middle of the afternoon has its drawbacks, mostly, the very few places serving.  So we wound up in the Cheesecake Factory, on the top floor of Macy's.  I know, I know.  We live in a city renowned for its exciting and varied dining scene and we tuck into a chain that you could find in Boise.  

A menu that's a book.  Twenty two pages.   I looked for a table of content, but couldn't find it.  The waitress was charming and laughed at how perplexed we were by the size of it.  "Lunch is on page 8," she tipped us.

I ordered a salad off the "Skinnylicous" menu because I  sort of love made up words.  I have no idea what the "skinny" part was supposed to be, since when it came it was a huge mound of greens, a couple of pounds at least, with all sorts of odd scraps dumped on, goat cheese and chicken and mushy pears.  It had absolutely no flavor except sort of sweet, as if the dressing was made out of liquified Milky Way bars.  As most of the other patrons were enormous fat chicks, I suppose the management knows what the customers demand.

Fortunately, I also had ordered fish and chips, definitely not skinny-anything, but tasty.  And then we spilt a piece of cheesecake for desert.

I give them a D, mostly because it is exactly the kind of evil corporate dining experience you expect.  And the coffee sucked.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Everbody's a Critic

Whilst cooking up a big pot of lentils tonight (because I am apparently a lesbian,) I was overtaken with the urge to burst into a rendition of Boogie Fever (because I am actually a fifty-something gay man.)  Who knows why?  These things are beyond a mere mortal's ken.  More annoying was my cat's annoying reaction.  He turned tail and bolted from the room, before I even got to the first chorus and way before I started shaking my groove thang.  Bitch.  We'll see how tough he is on Friday when I take him down to get his claws clipped.

Also irritating is the reappearance of the dread Blogger's Comments Spam.  I had eliminated the requirement for word verification from my commentors because I like comments and I wanted to make placing them as easy as possible.  But now that They have found me again (Here's the comment from earlier today: We [url=]free casino bonus[/url] be suffering with a corpulent library of unqualifiedly free casino games for you to challenge opportunely here in your browser. Whether you pine for to practice a table encounter strategy or scarcely sample exposed a occasional late slots before playing for legitimate filthy lucre, we procure you covered. These are the rigid uniform games that you can with at veritable online casinos and you can play them all representing free.   Uh, thanks.) I need to go back in and crank the security level back up to Def Con Orange.

Also, I think I saw Wade Neff, porn mega star and all round hairy guy, at my coffee place this afternoon.  And I downloaded an app to play Yahtzee on my phone.

So, all in all, not a bad day.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Vote Now

Let's all just take a moment to admire today's houseboy before mrpeenee wanders off into another of my long-winded stories, shall we?

There, isn't that better?  Now for a story with wind of great length:

We are in a quandary.  Our dear friend The Fashion Sensation has had Parkinson's disease for several years; her condition has worsened dramatically over the last two years.  That would, of course, be enough to cause grave distress among her friends.  The quandary arises because of her wholehearted embrace of a string of what I think are crazyass bad decisions, to wit, quit her big shot, career defining Important Job, divorce her odd, but charming husband, and move off to a farm outside Toronto to live with some guy she met online last spring and with whom she has been conducting a torrid Skype-based affair.

And you wonder why my stories are long-winded.

I tried addressing my concerns with her, using small, firm words, particularly the one that living in Toronto would expose her to snow. But, since she grew up in some godforsaken state abutting Canadia richly supplied in frozen tundra, she apparently does not share my deep seated and wholly sensible suspicion of the stuff.

I would have expanded my objections to include the fact she has been considering this since April, but waited to spring on her unsuspecting hubby until two days before they were supposed to leave on a trip to Berlin (in January?) when he was sick in bed the fact that she has filed for divorce.  Uh, honey?  So making it hard for me to stay on your side.

Plus, I'm constantly distracted by her attempts to expand on the details of how Skype Love works between man and woman.  Why do straight women think gay men need tutorials?  I know how the plumbing operates; the rest does not need my attention.  Do I share the finer points of felching?  No.

So anyway, in a totally cowardly way, I have been avoiding conversations, even emails because I feel like if I really am convinced this is the Big Mess Express, I should have intervened and done so before now.  And tonight when she wrote to say today was her birthday and could we go out for brunch this weekend did not help the "I am Such a Bad Friend/Worm/Dog" sensation.

In my defense, let me remind the court that my good pal Brian once took me aside to warn me the guy over whom I was making a fool of myself didn't love me, would never love me, and that I should just move on.  You can see where this is going, right?  Yes, the guy was R Man and by ignoring Brian's advice, I opened myself to thirty years of wedded bliss.  I have ever since then been reluctant to hand out  advice.

Maybe this is The Fashion Sensation's big, last chance at happiness.  What do I know?

I'll tell you what I know.  The Canadian told her he wanted to take care of her.  Not was willing to.  Wanted to.  I took care of R Man at the end and it was awful, heart-breaking, exhausting work.  I'm glad I did it, for my sake as well as R's, but to say it's something you want?  Ick.  Plus he writes her long letters with darling water colours and drawings and pressed leaves and, I don't know, glitter rainbows.  Probably.  Behavior I expect more from a teenage gay boy.  Not some guy I'm interested in handing over an ailing old friend.

I was going to throw this open to a vote, should I or shouldn't I hurl myself into the breach with a loud "Get a grip honey,"  But really it's too late.  I'll just go to brunch and see what happens.

Instead, we can vote on which houseboy you prefer, Brock (above) or Santiago (below).

Saturday, January 12, 2013

The Return of peenee

Yes, I'm back, thank you.  Secret Agent Fred and I had a lovely time in New Orleans, although I seem to remember more of it than Fred does.  Poor dear was just the teensiest bit too enthusiastic in celebrating the New Orleans sport of drinking oneself blind.

We also got to hang out with that bloggers' blogger, Jason, from Night is Half Gone and he and I had a very amusing afternoon eating beignets (there are some New Orleans cliches you simply have to embrace) and talking blogger talk, which essentially meant we were gossiping about you, our dear, dear readers.  My dears, the things Jason said about you.  Of course, I tried to defend you, but he was not to be denied.  For a fairly reasonable fee, I will forward you the filth he poured out about you.  Please allow sufficient time for me to make it up.

So we saw many cute boys, some of whom seem to be lost in Fred's bourbon fueled mists, but none of whom were this cute.

Now that I'm back, I've turned my attention once again to the L.A. Times' crossword puzzle which today included the clue:

"Rock from a Sock"

I was eventually able to chisel out the answer as being:

"See Stars" or possibly "Sees Tars"

Am I missing something?  I mean, I want my puzzles to be challenging, but including simple gibberish seems to be cheating.  Does this make sense to anybody?

In Which We're Calling It In

In the middle of an unnecessarily annoying and complicated day last week, my phone decided to commit suicide. I was Ubering along playing Ya...