Bonne Année et Bonne Santé

I went off to Peet's Cafe this afternoon for a cup o' joe and some tasty bit and when I'd finished, I wandered off to the restroom to return the coffee, so to speak.  Of course it was occupied, so I waited and waited.  And WAITED.  Usually that's bad sign because Peet's, although dear to my heart, is a regular on the homeless guy circuit and any occupancy this long almost always concludes with some bag lady, having finished god knows what, wandering out leaving a pungent aftermath.

Thankfully, though, this time it was a mousy and respectable looking asian man who handed me the key without making eye contact and then scurried off.  I stepped in and was faced with a sort of still life: the wrapper from a moist toilette directly in front of the toilet and about halfway between it and the trash can, the corn husk from a tamale.  I wondered briefly what story all this implied, but then immediately knew that I didn't really want to know.   I peed, washed my hands and kicked the detritus into more discreet positions so the guy in line behind me wouldn't think they were mine.  You need to think about things like that in a small town.

I have no idea what tamales and toilettes have to do with this post, I was actually going to write about how I hoped this would get up before midnight and thus bolster my anemic count of entries for December.   I have three this year.  In 2008, my most prolific year, I had 18.  I keep saying I'm going to do better, afterall, I'm not doing anything else.  But then the cat or porn or, most often, slacker sloth gets in the way and suddenly there are no posts magically appearing.

I'm sure it's not apparent, but I put thought into these gems of deathless prose.  Some anyway.  Frequently, I'll get stuck struggling with the exact word I want tantalizing out of reach.  Maybe those this-is-your-brain-on-drugs ads were right; whatever.  So I'll wander off trying to come up with the word "judicial" or "soliloquy" and come back later only to realize the whole thing is hash, delete it and start all over.  Or go watch porn.  It happens.

Tonight though, I was determined to force something out, however hashish, since I'm located on the Pacific Coast and thus of all my little blog friends, I'm pretty much the last one left here in 2014.  Unless there's some lurker from Guam out there, and how likely is that?  And you'll be reading this in 2015.  It's like a really, really slow time machine!  With crappy spell check.

So anyway here is my last muscle pussy of the year (and a particularly demure one at that) and possibly your first one of the new

Happy New Year.

Season's Beatings

A dear old friend from our misspent college days in Austin appeared here in town and we got together for coffee, then lunch, then drinks and wrapped up with dual manicures.  It was the ultimate Ladies Who Lunch sort of experience and quite amusing.

As such things will do, the conversation eventually drifted over to masturbation.  Doesn't it always?    A problem with consistently making an idiot of myself is that people don't know when I'm being serious, so when I announced "I think masturbation is life affirming," our dear old friend just laughed, but I wasn't joking.  Spanking one's monkey is pleasure for pleasure's sake and what could be more life affirming than that?  For once, you're not trying to prove anything to anyone, no one is keeping score, all the crap that keeps you down is momentarily put aside in favor of me, myself and I: my favorite three musketeers.  Nothing but you and whatever filth your id feels like dredging up.

Still, word has reached us that some consider the art of self love with distaste.  I say if God was against jacking off, why would he provide us with opposable thumbs and porn?  Are these people waiting for permission?  If so, mrpeenee hereby grants you the right too all the squeeze play you want.  So here's to lightening the load.  Go ahead and rub one out right now.  Think of this as my christmas present to all of you.

Joyeux Noël

Everything is Relative

I had just clicked on a blog I'm rather fond of (brutos eros) and run across this charming tableau

when the guy who does my taxes (Taxguy) called to chat about how painful my relations with the IRS were going to be this year.  The whole thing made me wonder about karma and the coincidence of the universe and the similarity between insufficient deductibles and buttplugs.

Also, I think the red bucket lends an ominously festive note, don't you?

Also, here's my crixmus card for all you mischievous miscreants

Thank you wondermark comics

In Which mrpeenee Returns

Cause mrpeenee likes to be stylin' when he's suffering through airport purgatory.

People of Earth, I know what very few posts I am able to scratch up here have lately turned into two flavors:

• I'm going to New Orleans
• I just got back from New Orleans.

This time I just skipped the "I'm going to New Orleans" part and I'm here to report I'm back.  Surely you missed me.  And was the old place charming as ever?  Why yes, yes it was.  Thanks for asking.  I had a great deal (possibly excessive) of deliciousness, including duck gumbo at a fancy place and shrimp remoulade at a decidedly not fancy place dear to my evil little heart.

I also got to hang out in a bar called Lafitte's for their Tired Old Disco Night with Jason from Night is Half Gone.  Too fabulous, I only wish you could have been there.  The old darling really is charming, you know.  He assures us all the miscreants he teaches are wild for Beowulf this semester.  I'm skeptical, but he swears it.

He and I are were able to impress Secret Agent Fred with our in-depth knowledge of the song One Night in Bangkok.  I thought everyone knew it was from some odd Broadway musical named Chess about a real chess tournament held, logically, in Bangkok and written by the ABBA guys.  Didn't you?

Fred brought along his boyfriend (yes, it's true, he's off the market.  Sorry.) who's very fond of a snort or two so when Fred got bored standing around my house there watching me enthuse over drywall installation, I could send them off for drinkies and everyone was happy.

I particularly was happy because, at long last, drywall has been hung and you can now actually see the shape and size of the rooms.  Big, big yay.

before

After, with the new exterior paint and the dumpster box out front which has apparently become a neighborhood fixture.

The back rooms before all the walls were ripped out to make one huge ass room.

  

Huge ass room

Huge ass ceiling of huge ass room.  And get off that beam, I paid too much for you to use it as a catwalk.

I Blame Drugs

I join in this week's salute to vidiotic musical ancient history, what with Cafe Muscato's Petula Clark anniversary and the usual shenanigans of The Redundant Variety Hour stooping to Olivia Newton Whatever, by presenting T. Rex tearing it up with Children of the Revolution.

You can squint all you want, but eventually you have to concede lead singer Marc Bolan, partially buried under a wig he seems to have boosted from Cher, is wearing a two piece yellow miniskirt, decorated with random string.

More disturbing than his fashion choices is the spectacle of Straight White People Trying to Dance.  Girl, the fucking downbeat is practically delivered by cannon shot, how can you possibly miss it? And let us not overlook the guy in the fuscia t-shirt standing perfectly still, waving his hands aimlessly as if he were trying to contact the spirit world through an invisible ouija board.

Nevertheless, a great tune, rocketing up the charts.

Out with Friends

Secret Agent Fred and I went out for drinks and, eventually, pizza with longtime mrpeenee commenter Salty Miss Jill the other night.  She had blown in from the big city and I was delighted to meet her: she is both salty and sweet and I like meeting the people who bestir themselves to comment here.  It makes their sassy insolence seem more heartfelt.  Plus did I mention she was charming?  We wound up in the bar for a couple of hours talking blogger talk.  SMJ has allowed her blog to fall fallow and I was encouraging her to hit the keyboard once again.  I think there are just never enough amusing bloggers out there.  How else am I supposed to waste my time?

Also, she revealed that she had a waitressing past with teeny-tiny pornster Samuel Colt, which I think alone requires extensive blog coverage.

Serious

San Francisco won the World Series.  Whoo.  Yay.  Considered me as thrilled for the home team as it is possible for a gay man completely uninterested in sports to be.

Celebrations of the win around town turned into the widely expected teeny tiny riots.  Dozens arrested, people stabbed or shot, small-ish bonfires hither and yon (and by "yon" I mean the middle of Mission Street.)

Even the Castro, our gay epicenter, was not immune, but much more tastefully.  Secret Agent Fred and I were down there about midnight (long story, let's just leave it at we were down there.)  Toilet paper streamers crumpled onto the street everywhere.  I've been saying for years how the Castro has been dwindling as Gaylandia, but last night, perhaps, just perhaps, gave me pause as we heard someone screaming "Christina!, Christina!  Clean up this mess." And plenty of people apparently got the joke.  Maybe there's life in the old girl yet.

Before: streamers artfully strewn.

After: crap in the street.

I am Ashamed. Sort Of.

The ever urbane Muscato from Cafe Muscato describes an afternoon swanning about Vienna and then asks what the rest of us lesser mortals did lately for amusement.  I bought a suede coat and a pair of giant blue and white porcelain vases; got trapped in a clusterfuck of traffic because of this World Series thing here for an hour and a half and then leaned out of my car window and spat on a limo that was causing a bottleneck on the only escape route out of downtown San Francisco.

Even as I let loose, I wondered who on earth I had become.  I may have launched originally from Texas, but I've been a Lady for years now.  Nevertheless, the limo's passenger's look of horror was immensely gratifying.

I may have been watching a little too much American Horror Story lately.

New Orleans News. Also, I'm Not Dead

I've spent the last few days hovering on the edge of being sick; sort of feverish and queasy, wondering when the ebola was going to strike.  Turns out it was just a reaction to a flu shot I got last week, but that didn't stop Saki from occasionally checking in to see if I was dead enough to eat.

This was all shortly after Secret Agent Fred and I returned from New Orleans where Fred entertained the hotel staff by raiding the self service bar in the lobby and then settling in to take a nap on the couch there despite the staff's efforts to shoo him off to his room   They seemed fairly amused by the whole thing in describing it to me the next day, which says a lot about both Fred's charm and their pleasure in watching me squirm as they dragged out each mortifying detail.  All of which I repeated to Fred, except for the parts I exaggerated.  And the ones I just made completely up.

I also was able to check in on the progress of the renovation of my house there which was terribly gratifying.  I was especially please with the big back room.  I took the back two rooms on each side of the double and combined all four into one ginormous room and then put in a wall of windows across the back to see the garden, which currently is a mud and mildew pit, but one day soon will be full of Camellias and elephant ears and crape myrtle and other old timey New Orleans garden stalwarts.

before

Currently, complete with riff raft.

Again, before.  Who knew what horrors lay beneath those innocent looking dirty walls and cheap tile?

Windows.  Lots of Windows.

Nuns in the News

And yet another clip.  I seem to be turning into a lesser Redundant Variety Hour.  This one comes to us from the our dear Sister Mary Legs in the Air, who's running the reno in New Orleans for me.   Sister got his name initially because of his fondness for all things religious, but specifically Catholic.  Sort of a passion for the Passion.  Natch, his contribution turns out to be a rocktastic nun.  Irene Cara, Bride of Christ.

Bitch nails those power notes.  Dancing in Oxfords.  Religious ecstasy in the audience.  Safety Gay monks stripping down to pastel clam diggers.  Everything you want except for dumping a bucket of water over her.  She's a maniac.  Do you think this is a standard for Italian drag queens now?

Sister is much in the mrpeenee news this week because Secret Agent Fred and I  leave Thursday morning for New Orleans to check in on what shenanigans the crew has gotten up to lately while putting my house there back together.  With any luck I will return with photos of the lovely electrician, Marty.  Or maybe his name is Marti.  Could be.

Sell it, sister.

Oh, It's a Perfect Day

Secret Agent Fred and I stumbled in to a little place we know for dinner tonight and while we were tucking in, a wheezy three piece combo in the room next door struck up.  I was willing to ignore them until I realized they were covering (or attempting to do so) Pink Floyd's Money.

From there on, it was just down hill, of course.  A Beatle's medley; something Fred claimed was from The Smiths (for which I took his word, since I hate all things Morrisey;) and finally the smooth jazz sound of Perfect Day.

I like Perfect Day very much, the mismatch between the song's cheery bubble of lalalalala and Lou Reed's kind of atonal drone.  I have always assumed it was something of a sneer on his part against the very sunny type of music it parodies so spot on.  And yet, it also seems to be his sincere appreciation of what a perfect day is: simple, unstructured but full, happy.  With you.

So to then hear it ground out by the very kind of band the underlying mockery is aiming at was not just ironic, but thought provoking.  Three hacks plodding through their set, stuck in a barful of people who wouldn't pay them any attention if their combined hair (which wasn't much) was on fire.  Did the band get the joke?  Is that why they were playing it?  Or had some snarky hipster requested it and then gone off to snicker at his musical wit.

You know there's that old joke that not that many people bought the Velvet Underground's music, but they all went right out and started their own band.  Maybe that's the drummer's story and he insisted on including it.  Maybe it's one twelve songs the keyboardist knows.  There are many possibilities.

Then when I was looking for a video to illustrate this post, I ran across this promo one from the BBC in 1997.  Again, it largely seems to miss out on the sarcasm I've always heard in the song, so maybe I'm just imagining it, bitter old queen that I am.  Still, that's my story and I'm sticking with it.

The cast is certainly star-studded.  Of course, Bono makes an appearance.  Is there  ever one of these kind of things he misses out on?  But also, David Bowie, in an earring that, were he not a Big Star or if he had had a friend on hand, surely he would have been talked out of.

Also, (look quick or you'll miss them) Suzanne Vega, Doctor John (!), Emmylou Harris, sounding swell, and Tom Jones, who is not identified.  Did the BBC assume everyone would know who he is?  Maybe they were right.  Not to mention, Mrs. Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson, pixie-ish as ever.

I hope you enjoy it.  Try not to get stuck on Bowie's ear-bob.

mrpeenee, Vampire Koala

ohmygosh, you guys, it turns out I have morphed into a koala bear.  Koalas sleep more than 20 hours a day, just like me, and are adorable.  Ditto.

Random koala or mrpeenee?  You decide.

Tragically, most certainly not mrpeenee.

The only difference is that the bears get lots of fresh air, what with being relegated to the outdoors, and exercise from falling out of eucalyptus trees and I, on the other hand, refuse to leave the house.  I'm sort of a shut-in koala, existing on cinnamon rolls and chocolate milk.  THIS HAS GOT TO STOP.  Mostly because I just finished off the last of the cinnamon rolls.

Also, I'm not sure how most koalas feel about mormon boy porn, but I am still all for it.

In Which mrpeenee Struggles with the World of Internet Commerce

You are now connected to Amazon from Amazon.com

Me:On August 26, I had a chat session about the whirlpool bathtub I ordered. The person I chatted with claimed someone from "large purchases" would get back to me in 24 hours. It's been a week, no contact, so a) what's with that and b) where's my bathtub?

Amazon:Hello Gary, my name is Natally and I'm so sorry to hear that we where supposed to contact you and we didn't and the fact that you don't have your bathtub, let me see how i can help you

Me:great

Amazon:just to verify the address we are supposed to send this bathtub is blah blah blah

right?

Me:yes

Amazon:thank you, Gary please wait for me just a moment while i review your account really quick

Ok Gary, thank you for your patience, I actually need to connect you with one of my colleagues from the concierge dept because of the price of this bathtub, please hold while I connect you.

Gary are you there?

Me:yeah, it's not like I'm going to take a bath or anything.

Amazon:Thank you Gary just a moment

A Customer Service Associate will be with you in a moment.

You are now connected to Ben from Amazon.com

Ben:Hello!

Me:hi

Ben:I'm sorry that you have not gotten your bathtub yet, let me pull this order up and we'll see what's going on.

It looks like we are still working on acquiring the inventory to ship it out to you.

Me:what does that mean? I ordered this on July 19. When is the tub getting here.

Ben:We currently do not know. We're working on getting the inventory. It looks like it was out of stock when ordered and we've not been able to get another one quite yet. I'm sorry.

Me:It took amazon a month and a half to realize it was out of stock, I contacted you once already, and you're just now getting around to mentioning this?

Ben:I'm very sorry, from what I'm seeing on the details of the order, this was out of stock when you ordered it.

We did send you an update shortly after the order with an expected time that we could get this out to you. That was between August 18th and September 11th. I know that's a very long window, but when we're not sure when we're going to actually get them in, that does tend to happen.

Me:I'd like to point out Sept. 11 is nine days away. Are you saying the tub will be here then?

Ben:I cannot guarantee that, as it does not look like we've found a supplier yet, but it is not outside of the realm of possibilities. To be very honest, I doubt it.

Me:So, to summarize: Amazon's customer guarantees are worthless.

Ben:Not typically, but unfortunately in this case, it looks like we might actually not be able to make that date.

I can happily look into what's going on and why it's taking so long.

Of course, if you would like to cancel the order and go somewhere else, I'd completely understand.

Me:"Looking into it and finding out why it's taking so long" would be swell. In fact, many customers would assume that is what you would be already doing.

Ben:On the customer service end, that's not something that we generally handle. That's taken care of by our vendor managers and others in the procurement teams. But since I want to help you, I will do what I can to get you an answer, since they have not updated you.

Me:I'm in New Orleans. I can get a voodoo doll with "Procurement team" written on it without breaking a sweat and I suspect it would be just about as much help.

Ben:If that's what you feel you want to do, you're perfectly welcome to. I, on the other hand, am going to actually try to be helpful, if that's ok with you.

Me:Go to it. And reel in the snark while you're at it.

Ben:Honestly sir, I could say the exact same to you, but I did not mean to be snarky, so I apologize.

I'm typing up an email to the vendor manager in charge of that department.

Me:I look forward to hearing what you discover.

Ben:Would you prefer email or phone?

Me:email is fine. My address is mrpeenee@yahoo.com.

Ben:Awesome. I'll reach out to you as soon as I hear anything. I'm sorry that this is taking so long to get to you.

Me:Thank you and good day.

In Which mrpeenee Raises a Stink

Grisly remains.  RIP, dear little rice pot.

O dear god, I just got distracted (not by porn, oddly enough.) and burned a pot of rice, the stench of which is so bad I'm considering abandoning ship.  The whole sad affair brought to mind the only kitchen tip I was ever handed before I moved of my parents'  home for life on my own.  Of course, it was not produced by my mother, who assumed I would have some little wifey to handle all that domestic stuff and thus didn't need to be equipped with any.  Hilarious.  Instead, the mother of a friend came across with this:

If you're cooking something in a pot with a lid and you smell it burning, do not take the lid off. Instead, fill the sink with cold water as fast as possible and carefully put the pot in.

The pot will make this terrific and scary hissing noisy, but if you're lucky, you can often salvage the contents.  Not tonight, since what I have is some kind of carbohydrate-based charcoal now, but sometimes.  Also, pay attention to the part about "do not take the lid off."  Your first reaction to the stink is to think "Is that burning?" and want to look to check.  Do not fall for that.  If you can smell the smoke, it's burning.

I can't tell you how many times that little gem has come in handy, although possibly more handy would be the one that goes "Do not leave the fucking kitchen when you've got a pot on the stove, idiot."

Super Seven

What do you mean it's August?  The hell?   How do these things happen?

It's true I've been rather distracted lately by hosting guests for their own wedding and visiting New Orleans on a retail spree and competing with the cats to see who can sleep the most in one day, but that doesn't excuse missing two important (to me, and who else counts?) anniversaries in July.

The first was Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat's birthday, his seventh, on July 7.  Yes, 7/7/07 and now it's number seven, so maybe this year will be lucky for him.  Having ripped up both white leather chairs in the living room, he is now turning his attention to converting the back guest room into a spare cat box, so he's probably going to need all the luck he can get if I catch him pooping in there one more time.

And my blog, this title piece of heaven, also turned seven a few days ago, but again, I was sleeping, so, oops.  In case you wondering, here is the first post, from all those long years ago:

But who is mrpeenee?
I’m a nice guy, that’s who. I hide it successfully under a mask of brittle bitterness, but I would be happy to save orphan kittys and old ladies from burning buildings if I just weren’t so darn busy downloading porn and staring out the window. My long suffering lover, R Man, and I live in San Francisco where I work for the federal government making wildly inaccurate statements to the press and running the training program for entrepreneurs for the SBA here. I am occasionally surprised to realize how respectable I am.

I grew up in Texas, but never understood what white trash I am until I left. How was I supposed to know nice people didn’t put mayonnaise on their French fries?

I gotta go.

So seven years later and all I've learned is how to include photos of muscly young men.  Hmm.

Wedding Belles, Part Two

What a gay, romantic week it's been here at the old chez peenee.  Two of our oldest friends, Cow Queen and K, popped into town to get married and stayed here with me.  It was their thirty-something anniversary, and after a very tastefully small ceremony at City Hall, we had a lovely lunch at one of my favorite Italian restaurants downtown.

And then, a slightly less romantic trip to the emergency room for Cow Queen.  After we got home from all the wedding festivities (no bouquet toss since the majority of the party was composed of widow ladies) Cow admitted as to how his leg was aching and reminded me that he had been in the hospital a few years ago with MRSA, the drug resistant staph infection, and that his doctor he'd been at pains to warn him how easy it was for it to come back.  He also revealed a big hole in his shin that he had won falling down a ladder at work last week.

He was reluctant to go to the emergency room, but a lifetime with R Man had taught me how to overcome such moronic protests.  Why is it when the words "infection" or "blood loss" or "chest pains" hang heavy in the air, I am the one who thinks how attractive the local hospitals are?  The idea that I am the responsible one in the room should make everyone a little less comfortable.

So I stuffed his protesting ass in the car and wheeled off to my favorite E.R.  A lifetime with R Man has also equipped me with a connoisseur's knowledge of them.

It wasn't bad, less than three hours, mostly spent discussing the wedding and the lunch and then we were back home.  So it wasn't the ideal honeymoon.  At least he scored a bunch of oxycontin and that has to count for something.

In Which Cash is Dropped

Crepe myrtles, one of my favorite Southern flowers, in bloom

Attention, People of Earth:

So anyway, I got a charming postcard from an old friend (isn't that quaint?)  which reminded me I needed to attend to my own quaint writing medium and now here we all are.  Welcome back.

New Orleans?  Fabulous, darlings.  I swept through thrift stores,  junk malls, and Good Antique Shoppes with equal abandon, flinging the bucks like a drunk sailor in a cathouse.  mrpeenee's credit card has a new, possibly permanent dent in it, but it was worth it.

I found a beautiful big dining table with a huge dark green marble top, a pair of charming antique armchairs, reupholstered in a lovely grey and white stripe,  a couple of chest of drawers, a very pretty chandelier that will be much improved by having some of its fussier crystals removed, lamps and a vase.  I also met with the cabinet maker who's doing the kitchen and picked out the marble and tiles for the baths and the kitchen and the bricks for the patio.

Also, I got to see for the first time the couch I bought online.    Sweet.

Ooh, also, a lovely little drop leaf desk.  We must have seen fifty of them, or more.  Where on earth could they all have come from suddenly?

Chandelier in a box.  I rather like the minimalist implications, but I think I might hang it without the cardboard, what the hell.

My talent for arbitrary decisions stood me in good stead; I chose the bricks in under five minutes.  It probably took us longer to park.  I just don't see the point of dithering, especially over something like patio flooring.  I've discovered it seems so overwhelming when you're standing in the middle of eleventy million options, but then once they're installed you never critically look at them again.  After all, they're just bricks, or light fixtures, or faucets.  You see something you like, take it.  Perfection is not achievable, says the buddha.  Or mrpeenee.  One of us, anyway.

Quiet, please.  Can't you see tattoo buddha is taking a nap?

But that's only in person. I came home to nail down the bathtubs and sinks and stoves and whatnot online and once again the internet with its vast universe of choices reduced me to a blob of indecision.  Until, that is, I recalled how effective cutting myself off from porn until I at least picked out a goddam tub had been.

And it's a good thing naked muscly men are such an effective driver for me since renovation on the house has suddenly shifted into some kind of warp speed.  When I left there, all the interior walls had been ripped out and the floors in the bathrooms were nonexistent.  Now word reaches us framing has finished and walls are going up.  Hoo hoo!  Walls!  Floors! All kinds of cool house stuff.

Reporting Live, and Bleeding, from New Orleans.

Why on earth am I back in New Orleans in July?  Mostly to show solidarity with Sister Mary Legs in the Air who is drilling down through the house renovation, but mostly because I need to pick out some windows and other detritus at the architectural salvage place.  I also want to take another run at antiques and, as always, I want some shrimp.

I got in late last night and somehow found myself up awake and at 'em early this morning, which is so very not my style.  Since I needed supplies, I wound up hanging around outside the Walgreen's for them to open along with a most colorful gang of lowlifes.  It was like being on set at Warner's between takes of some not-very-successful Bogart film.

Speaking of Not Our Sort At All, I flew Delta here and if you were wondering on which airlines people board without wearing their shoes (perhaps they didn't understand they could put them back on after security, perhaps they just didn't want to, perhaps they don't have any.  Who knows) I have the answer for you.

And now my thumb has started bleeding mysteriously, like some stigmata.  I went over to the front desk for a bandaid and it's telling that I stay here so much, I knew where they were when the clerk didn't.

The temps and humidity combine to produce an ambience similar to a pot of water right before it boils.  Dear god, it's good to be home.

Cats and Muscle Porn; It's a Gay Life

When Secret Agent Fred dumped his fatuous boyfriend a few years ago, he asked if he could stash his terribly sweet, ancient cat, Asizzi, with me since Fred was renting his apartment out on Air BnB and somehow the listing of "affectionate cat" under the amenities was not working.  It was fine with me, I like Asizzi (I should mention, veterinarian offices are universally unable to handle his name and kept calling Fred up to the counter as "A Sissy."  Oddly accurate, but sort of confusing, so the cat's name has morphed into Steve.)

So Steve has been a resident here for all this time and Saki still has not warmed to it.  To keep them separate, Steve stays in R Man's old room, which sounds cramped, but since it's about the size of Fred's studio apartment, he doesn't seem to mind it, but occasionally will make a break for it.  Fred has been holed up in his own apartment slinging his excellent calligraphy for the tons of wedding invitations that are his bread and butter this time of year.  Exasperated at Steve getting out yet again (he is fast for an old codger) I decided to see how the two cats would get along.

Turns out much better than before.  They're sort of tense, stiff legged around each other, but a real minimum of hissing and no actual fights.  The amazing part is that Steve, America's Sweetheart, tends  to be the instigator of any rumpus.  He will occasionally let loose this prolonged low growl and tentatively poke his paw towards Saki who hunkers down looking baffled like "What is with you old man?"  Of course, Steve is so senile it's possible he thinks he's imitating a can opener.  There's no telling.

Also, having Fred out of the house means not just cat acclimation, but Porn Festival!  Not that having the old dear around really cramps my style much since we have separate bedrooms, but still, having the house all to myself is so poignantly reminiscent of being 14 and trying to rub one out before mom gets home from the store.  Whee!

Scrutiny of several new sites as well as some old faves has resulted in a conundrum.  A performer dear to my heart and my right hand has popped up on two sites and I can't decide which version I prefer.  So let's vote, shall we?

First, Gianluigi from Men at Play

 So very distinguished and distinctive, don't you think?


And then a sleeker version from MuscleHunks

Typically I would always go for the fur bearing beast thang, but I have to say, the MuscleHunk scene wherein dear little Gian his spanking his personal monkey and his giant shaved and waxed man tits are rocking gently back and forth is pretty darn mesmerizing.

And those lips.

I think I have to go do some more research.

In Which mrpeenee is Forced into a Decision

I'm still struggling with picking out fixtures for the house in New Orleans.  Selecting bathtubs and whatnot was a chore I knocked out in an afternoon when I redid the bathrooms here at Chez peenee, so why it's taking me more than three months to grind these out truly baffles me.  My talents at procrastination just seem to have developed, I suppose.

I did manage to scrape together a frantic few, so I could get the specs off to Sister Mary Legs in the Air, who's been very patiently putting up with my doddering all this time. I motivated myself by prohibiting porn until I had made some decisions.  That's right: I have moved from nagging myself to punishing myself.  Oy.

Items I snagged included sconces.  I like this one very much, plus I was thrilled by its description:

"Ostentatiously crisp white shades rise from a sparkling chrome bar in an effortless statement of both class and gentility"

cause I am all about ostentatious gentility.  I sort of love the passion whoever wrote this brings to modifiers for modifying's sake, although understanding what those big words actually meant would probably have helped.

So now I get to hoist back up on the porn train.  What am I watching these days, you ask?  Oh, just a little something called momronboyz.com.  Rosy cheeked, smooth skinned lads in white shirts and ties  and very odd underwear being molested.  What could be better?

Potty Mouth

In buying my house in New Orleans, I merrily believed the most taxing decisions would involve decorating conundrums like paint colors and such.   I overlooked the fact that in ripping out everything from the kitchens to the electric sockets, someone (that would be me) would have to pick out new ones to replace all that.

I've spent the whole evening looking at bathtubs and then, just for laughs, toilets.  I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone living in this consumers' paradise, choice really isn't a problem.  It's narrowing things down that's the bitch.  All I want is a potty that transports the poo out of the house.  A built-in nightlight is not something I had me heart set on.  Even when I cleared the list of lights and surround sound and "cleansing devices" (oh dear.  Oh very dear.) I wound up with a considerable table of comparisons most of which seem identical.

The search engine on the Lowe's store page asks "What are you looking for?'  I understand they're trying to be helpful, but I was so frustrated by that time, I took it as a more philosophical question and decided if their page wanted to know why I was bothering to look, maybe it was time to go to bed.

What's in a Name?

You know, of course, all the finest porn sites have search functions to allow one to peruse the vast universe of filth more effectively.  Occasionally, I amuse myself (while abusing myself, as Ms Midler would have it) by typing in the most ridiculous titles that come to mind to see, not if, but rather how many of them are actual films.  Those of you familiar with the genre will not be surprised at the incredibly high return of hits I get, no matter how blatantly stupid the name might be.  And let me just add that when I say "Those of you familiar with the genre..." I know I am speaking to all of you guys, so don't try to hide.

It's a game you can play once you're bored with watching how far some brute can stick his forearm up someplace it was never meant to be, so let's go shall we?

Surprisingly, one of my faves, In the Drivers Seat, still is waiting for someone (you maybe) to make it.  On the other hand, I was amazed to find another one, Under the Big Top, was not only produced, but done so quite well by the genius director Kristen Bjorn

and stars the creamy dreamboat, Max Veniziano.

Production notes inform us that this epic is based on the opera Pagliacci, which I, for one, did not expect, but, you know, whatever.

 Also another title I'm quite fond of, Grease Pit, is still unrealized, although a search for that term turns up some real doozies, including, but not limited to Grease Guns (1 and 2)

and the close-but-no-cigar Grease Pit Daddys.  That may be an improvement, I'm not sure.

Plus Low Hanging Fruit is also inexplicably available and, again, searching for that reveals some candidates that have been cranked out that I am not even going sully my blog with by repeating.

Pretty much any common phrase is a likely candidate.  In fact Common Phrase could be a great choice, the story of a randy English teacher and his naughty pupils, although I suppose it requires one to know that "common" not only means vulgar, but once upon a time was used to refer to one who was sexually knowing.  Ooh, ooh, and Sexually Knowing would be another and a shout out to the Who's Quadraphenia to boot. And what would lend itself to this better than To Boot?  Why do I have to do all the thinking around here?

The great thing about smut titles is that not only do they provide the name of the film, but the plot as well, and, frequently, most of the dialogue.  You come up with Daddy's Home and, boom, you're pretty much done with writing.  Or "writing."  And also, again, searching for that gem leads you down a rabbit hole of ouveres you probably don't want to know about, although Daddy Ike Is Collecting the Rent sounds like it might be amusing.

Sorry, I gotta go, I have tons more research to do.

Blah Blah Blogging

I've spent much too long this evening trying to pull together some kind of post about spending the afternoon in the war zone Castro Street has turned into

(construction has ripped up the streets and sidewalks like a gutted fish forcing you to navigate these narrow temporary corridors fenced in on all sides.  It's like being stuck inside Thunderdome.)  Frustration with getting anything more than that parenthetical news bulletin reminds me of one of my favorite Dorothy Parker quotes:

“I hate writing, I love having written.” 

Not so much block as complete desolation, I can't think of anything or how to say it if I do think of it. I start to wonder if English is really my first language.  Would I have better luck in Urdu?

Besides, what is blogging anymore but a quaint and dying hobby much like tatting?  One by one, most of the blogs I used to read that, like mine, were first person accounts of how the blogger got along with their maddening (fill in the blank: spouse, job, addiction, cat, whatev) have all pretty much slipped beneath the waves, leaving me and a few other ranting souls, wearing our tinfoil hats and carrying on.  Having a blog used to be hip, and then it was trite, and now it's sort of musty.

So I decided to redecorate, hence the new background and header photo and other snappy touches.   Also, looking up the Dorothy Parker quote (in order to get it actually correct.  I'm pissy that way.  I also don't use "comprised" when I mean "composed."   Pissy.) I found a quote of hers that was unfamiliar to me, and which I've decided to use as my new cri de coeur:

“Heterosexuality is not normal, it's just common.” 

Who ya gonna call when you need snipers removed from your tastefully decorated crime scene?
SWAT BUSTERS!

Free to a Good Home, One Secret Agent

Sister Mary Legs in the Air, Magda and me at the sketchy remains of my house in New Orleans, largely held together by blue tape.

Had I known what lay ahead of me just a few short hours later, I would have taken the chance to bury Fred in the backyard, dead or not.

The scene: mrpeene's tasteful French Quarter hotel room, 4:30 AM as he bustles about, preparing to depart for San Francisco, becoming increasingly edgy as his calls to Secret Agent Fred go into voicemail, an exercise with Fred which is absolutely pointless.  One might as well write notes, seal them in old bourbon bottles and throw them in the Mississippi.

Finally, short lived relief as Fred calls in..  Short-lived because Fred's contribution is nothing short of gibberish.  I could swear the phrase "argle bargle" is mixed in with the rest.

mrpeenee: "Queen, where are you, I know you are not packed, the car is waiting downstairs and we have to go."

Secret Agent Fred: "aq;fhpovxcmsurg;dsajhfpentmbvhsd;dfhs,mfvhsf,snf.    Argle Bargle."

mrpeenee, his voice raising with his blood pressure: "What?  Bitch what are trying to say, where are you?  This is the time I really am going to kill you and leave your body behind."

Secret Agent Fred: "aq;fhpovxcmsurg;dsajhfpentmbvhsd;dfhs,mfvhsf,snf."  and then, possibly, " I'm right outside the hotel."

mrpeenee, knowing full well better than to take this at face value, goes out on the balcony and sees no one resembling, even slightly, Fred. "Queen, I don't know where the fuck you think you are, but it is not outside the hotel.  You get here NOW or I'm leaving you behind."

Just then, I hear Fred's dulcet tones coming into range and, sure enough, there he comes, shambling up Chartres street, still babbling into his phone.  At that point. I leave off talking into the phone and just start screaming threats and slurs down at him.  Fred is completely oblivious to many things, including the fact I am standing twenty feet from him so he stays on his phone.  Kids these days and their darn gizmos.  Despite the early hour on our very quiet street there are a great many onlookers taking this all in as some kind of colorful New Orleans street theater, like something out of Tennessee Williams.

Secret Agent Fred: "Drop a quarter in it, bitch"  I admit it, a phrase that has certain insouciant charm, but is not helping anything.

I run downstairs and grab Fred, still blabbering into his phone, and drag him past various street vagrants, neighbors, the house porter and the car driver, whom I assure, "We'll be right back."  He seems unimpressed.

Also unimpressed is the hotel night manager who only asks "Are you checking out?"  No, fathead, we're rehearsing for the Golden Girls reunion.

In Fred's room. I order him to take a quick shower.  He refuses and I explain he smells like he's been rolling on the floor of a not very nice bar, a point which seems all too possible.  I finally yank his shirt off, give up on his pants since his belt seems to be welded shut and just give him a once over with a wash cloth and cold water, just to be mean.

As I frantically pack his suitcase and scream at him to get his goddamn clothes on, Fred takes the opportunity to critique my packing style by pulling out everything I'm able to stuff in, announcing "I want to wear that."

I honestly have no idea how I got him out the hotel and into the car, but finally, we are on our way and Fred entertains our long-suffering driver and me with the details of his evening's divertissements.  Choice snippets of my replies to this follow:

"You got punched in the face AGAIN?"

"Why would (our friend ) Levee hit a woman?"

"MUSHROOMS?  When the fuck did you have time to eat mushrooms?  How can you be tripping?  We have to get through security and on the plane in less than an hour."

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh"

The last thing our driver said to me, as he bid us adieu, not doubt glad to be rid of us?  "He is never getting on that plane."  Believe me, this was not news to me.

Amazingly we did, in no short thanks to my constantly hissing "Zip it" to Fred, who wanted to befriend every authority figure we encountered.  I can only assume the goons at the New Orleans airport have all seen plenty worse in their time.

God, they assure us, is a mill who may grind slow, but grinds incredibly fine and Fred got ground as finely as possible since airlines had cancelled our flight and wound us up hanging around the Dallas airport for SIX HOURS during which Fred mostly moaned and whimpered and I clarified that it was exactly what deserved.

When finally, finally, we got home Fred allowed as he thought he would stay home the next time I went to New Orleans.  "Who invited you?" was all I said.

Truly, it's a good thing I love the old thing because I can't tell you how many times drowning him in some mens room toilet seemed like a sensible idea.  It's so nice to be home.

Reporting Live from New Orleans, Part 2

Secret Agent Fred and I are back in New Orleans, living the high life.  Fred is, anyway.  We got here at midnight last night and he has already snagged more pussy than I have in the last three years.  Not that I mind, of course not.  One has to admire both his talent and his dedication.

The nominal reason for the trip is shopping; I have realized that if I wait until the house renovation here is finished and then try to fit out the whole place at once, I'd be just overwhelmed.  Plus I like decorating.  Also, I wanted some shrimp.

It seems our appearance brought with it a tremendous storm.  I grew up with these Gulf Coast downpours and even I am impressed.  And wet.  Fred wanted to know if I planned on going out tonight.  Go out in a drowning downpour to visit tired gay bars I didn't like that much thirty years ago? No thanks.

We stopped by my house to get a peek at the work wrought on it so far.  The roof has been replaced and all the nasty, stinky old plaster and lath walls have been ripped out, great progress.  Less thrilling was the revelation that termites had eaten so much of the studs, the only thing holding the whole place up was inertia and love of Baby Jesus.  The crew is just about finished with replacing all the studs in the house.

That means the roof, the wiring, the sill and all the interior walls of the house I bought three months ago are now gone, so what's left is pretty much the siding and the ground the place sits on.  This just in: some of the siding has to be replaced.    I'm beginning to believe that soon I will only own the concept of a house here.

On the bright side, Sister Mary Legs in the Air is leading a charge into renovation that is nothing short of inspiring.  When he's through with it, the whole place will be snug and solid.  And pretty much rebuilt from scratch.

Oh well, I am a mere vessel, facilitating the spread of Fred's slutty reign over New Orleans.  And I plan on shrimp for lunch tomorrow, so, you know, yay.

Celebrate

Let's celebrate, bitches.The weather here is balmy with partly clothed boys popping up everywhere.  Saki the cat got out, but came back and his new vet's stunning good looks are absurdly like what a soap opera veterinarian would be cast with.   Jason  is still puny, but didn't die.  Yet.  So Celebration.

Not last, Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore sold finally and the check is, as they say, in the mail.  This whole ordeal has been bruising and the only reason we got through it was  Ask the Cool Cookie who has dealt with months of madness, mayhem, mould and contractors.  He is, as his people would say, a mensch.

The very last day as the deal was stumbling through the byzantine process of unloading a house, a mystery line of credit popped up and we had to scramble to deal with it cause unless it was closed, no deal.

Fred had taken to his bed at his apartment, like some frail in a mediocre Tennesse Wiliams' play and was not answering his phone.  I wound up begging a friend of ours, Rascal, who has a key to Tim's building and lives nearby, to go over a roust the little miscreant and urge him to call the realtor ASAP. It's possible I also might have dropped a hint that kicking Fred could be a swell idea, but I don't know how all that went over.

I do know the incredibly patient realtor emailed this afternoon to confirm the check is on its way.

Also, chez peenee's back yard is winding up for what looks like a stunning late spring.

So celebrate.  Now is the time, this is place.

In Which a Small Cat has a Big Time

I was returning from taking the trash out and in the tiny, tiny window of opportunity when the house door and the garage door are both open, Saki, the adorable and evil, but mostly evil, cat made a break for it.

I gave chase (always such a good idea) but tripped and fell, scratching both palms and banging up my knee.  By the time I had righted my creaking old self, he had disappeared.

I wandered up and down our tasteful and quiet street, making the the little "tch tch" noise that is the only thing he ever pays attention to, but sort of hopelessly.  Our neighborhood has big stretches of wild, open canyon and I figured he was off paying the coyotes a visit, and, really, what are the chances of finding a cat in the dark?

One of my neighbors popped up, a sweet lady who, I'm sure, is not responsible for her Crazy Hair, and offered to help.  She asked what "her" name was, I told her "He probably thinks it's 'Get Off the Table' cause that's what he hears the most."  She didn't seem to get it, so I relented and explained it was really Saki, which she allowed was a cool name.

We shared lost cat stories and she looked around for a while in the most inept manner possible until I finally thanked her and sent her on her way.  I leaned against the garage door, mentally composing flyers:

LOST CAT

No collar

No brains

Answers to absolutely nothing.

If found, approach with caution.

I was already comforting myself with the realization that at least I wouldn't have to worry about finding to someone to take care of him while I was in New Orleans when he scurried back in, his tail huge, as big around as it can get, so it would seem he had run into some adventures.

Serves him right.  I want it clearly understood I did NOT greet him with baby talk and chin scratches.  Maybe a little.

Spring

Perhaps you heard?  Sunday, April 20 was both Easter (as I like to point out, a Jewish fairy tale about zombies celebrated with symbolically ritualized cannibalism.  Fabulous) and also the highly unofficial holiday of 420, which for reasons no one knows celebrates marijuana.

I don't really care one way or the other about either of them, in fact, I had forgotten this was Easter until Friday when I was trying to make reservations for brunch.  My biggest complaint on Sunday was that the confluence of both meant that every idiot in town whose driving was impaired either by religious fervor or dope, or both, was in my way.  There is an intersection where three streets cross and some buffoon attempting a left turn had some crisis of confidence and just gave up, sitting in the middle, blocking the rest of us.  Maybe it was an art piece, there's lots of those around here.

On the brighter side, the brunch was just charming and included an ice cream cone for dessert and I found a great couch for the New Orleans house.

Also blooming right now is my beautiful, beautiful cereus, so yay for spring and all that.