Friday, September 27, 2013

Out of the Darkness

So I meant to post on Wednesday, Sept. 25 that it was the fifth anniversary of my wedding to R Man, but before I could get around to it, the power went out, so instead Secret Agent Fred and I wandered around the house, lighting candles and tripping on things.

I was going to whine about living without R Man, but you know what?  I don't want to.  I'm doing better now than when he died then and I expect to continue that way.  Instead of writing some droopy, sad little post about missing R Man, I went to bed early.

Then this afternoon, I took Saki down to get his claws clipped on Castro while I went across the street to get my own nails done at Handjob.  I don't know why he pretends manicures are so traumatic, I like them.

I have no idea what's going on in the photo above.  I just find it amusing.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

A Quiet Evening

Secret Agent Fred appeared and we went out for drinks and vicodin at the Glass Coffin, drinks served by Fred's friend, the luscious Speros.
Tragically, this does not begin to show the beauty of Speros.  If you add the circumference of his biceps, they would probably exceed his tiny little waist.  Bitch.

I had just picked up the Vikeys so they were fresh, the weather was warm and cute boys were swarming all over the Castro.  A good time was had by all.

We wandered home and sat down for a game I like to call "What Does the Internet Have to Say?"  Each of us takes turns showing the other what fresh hell the web has proffered us lately.  Fred had me watch several videos by a hip hop duo from South Africa called Die Antwoord who rap in some gibberish mix of English and Afrikaans and, for all I know, Morse code.  It is not entertainment geared towards those of us amused by Noel Coward.  Nevertheless, I still thought it was pretty funny, mostly because of these incredibly white South African kids flashing gang signs and attitude and fashion that would have been perfectly at home in Compton, circa 1990.

Fred taking a short, unauthorized nap on the floor of the mrpeeneee International Command Centre and Communications Department. 

For my part, I introduced Fred to the genius of Slow Ass Jolene, the Dolly Parton classic slowed down considerably, which comes out sounding astonishingly like ballad singin' dude, perfectly in pitch, even the harmonies.  It is amazing.  Even if, or especially if, you don't like Dolly, you should listen to it.

Also, I can't remember where this came to my attention.  If one of you guys posted it first, I want to say thanks and apologize for not sharing credit.

After that, naturally, the evening devolved into a porn fest.  Fred shared A Bearded Boy , some slightly deranged gay lad who is nasty and cheerful as all hell about it.
Spooge happens.
Subsequent unguided and possibly unhinged wanderings from one site to another turned up what we both voted as the winner of the evening:

I have no information about him, I can only imagine this shot shows him locking the door against the clamoring throngs outside.  Who can blame them?

Tuesday, September 17, 2013


I like heist movies, like The Thomas Crowne Affair, or The Italian Job, or Rififi, or Inception, any complicated caper that involves split second timing and completely unbelievable coincidences and high speed car chases through a mid-town Manhattan with amazingly light traffic.  Or a naked Jason Statham.  Especially a naked Jason Statham.

So I settled in to watch Now You See Me happily enough and after it was over thought "What the fuck was that?  Can I have my ninety minutes back, please?"  Turns out, no.

I understand all of this genre requires a certain willing suspension of disbelief (again, Manhattan car chases with no traffic.  Yep.  Okay.) but Now You See Me takes this to another plane, sort of a willing assumption of simple mindedness.  The obligatory car chase turns out to have absolutely no purpose in the movie.  There is no reason the crooks indulge in it, it does nothing for the plot (or "plot") and the reveal of how the crooks structured it is just ludicrous.  It involves Woody Harrelson driving a city bus full of commuters who apparently don't notice there is a car attached to the bus.  With a convenient dead guy in it.

It's all very slick and the cast is nice looking
Dave Franco, James Franco's little brother, who simply disappears for a big chunk of the movie.  Maybe he found something better to do.

Mark Ruffalo, who was cute, in a fresh-out-of-rehab sort of way.

but let me emphasize the main adjective here is "ludicrous."

One of minor points I found the most irritating turns on the cops being able to find a hotel room in New Orleans at Mardi Gras because they have an Interpol chick who speaks French and, naturlement, being able to do so is a big plus in the Big Easy.  I lived there a long time and ran into plenty of natives who apparently could not speak English, but not because they were Francophones.  I know it was a French colonial town, but so were St. Louis and Detroit and nobody expects them to roll out fluency in French.

And no naked Jason Statham.  I mean, really, what's the point?

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Ironic Hair

Polk Street is an odd San Francisco thoroughfare.  It runs through several very schmancy neighborhoods and yet it manages to be shabby.  Castro is the more well known gay center, but Polk was the original gay ghetto.  We lived near it and I got to know it well enough to realize every block had a liquor store, a dry cleaner, a cheap diner and a gay bar.  Every block.  A very short hop down from the center of what was the rentboy stroll is the front door of City Hall.  It's San Francisco, there's not a lot of room to spread out.

But the last decade of skyrocketing rents has routed pretty much every bohemian or louche or plain old funky neighborhood and Polk Street is no exception.  Almost all the old gay hustler bars have given way to guys with oversized glasses and teeny tiny hats drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon.

It's Hipsterland: expensive, ironic and grimy.

Pretty much I don't care, they got to go someplace, I suppose, but this week my barber called to say his back had given out and I needed my hair cut and somehow I wound up at the People's Barbershop on Polk at Bush Street.

A temple to hipster's fetish of guy-ism with a hearty dash of steampunk thrown in for decor, if it was any more hip, I would have been issued a monocle and a wool vest.  Who am I kidding, if it was any more hip, I would have been barred at the door.

So now I have a $60 haircut I don't like.  The sides are fine, but the top has sort of a poufy roll which, considering how little hair I have to work with, is pretty amazing.  I look sort of like Julie Harris in Member of the Wedding, but not as attractive.  Or butch.

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...