The Glamorous Life: an Ongoing Report

My dear, it's thrilling to be back in the old country.  I've eaten fried chicken, fried shrimp, crawfish and gumbo (twice) and had a tasty treat called a Frozen Irish Coffee that was some kind of Oreo Slurpee for semi-adults comprising as it does liquor, coffee and chocolate in a slush.

Secret Agent Fred and I have also hit the gay bars in the French Quarter a couple of times this weekend.  It was just more sad, sad evidence that queer bars are a dying species.  Here we are, so close to Mardi Gras you have to hold your nose and the old-time gathering places that back in the dinosaur days of my youth would have been packed weren't as full as they would have been on a regular week night back then, oh so long ago.

The only bright spots were shocking Fred with what a snarky bitch with a thick Southern accent I morphed into the instant I returned to my old haunts (poor Fred.  I assume listening to me evaluate the chances of some skinny drunken twinky boy must be like an evening with Tennessee Williams.  Grisly.) and I found out I have a fan.  Some guy at Lafitte's called out "Mrpeenee!  I read your blog all the time!"  Fred and I were both astonished and I was immensely gratified.  The idea someone would recognize me from the pictures I post here has always seemed awfully unlikely (in real life I am a lot more glamorous and much more attractive.)  I suppose the fact I had my patented vacant expression probably helped.

Anyway,  I'd like to say "hey" to Mr. Lafitte's and wish that I had had the presence of mind to be friendlier.  I was just too surprised to be charming.  As a token of my gratitude here's some muscle pussy:

Reporting Live from New Orleans

Secret Agent Fred and I are in New Orleans, The City that Care Forgot and the Quite a Few of Us Remember Fondly because I had to come here to buy my house (quaintly, everyone, sellers, buyers, agents, lawyers, hangers-on, and paparazzi for all I know, have to sit down together and have a big ol paper signing party) and to celebrate the madness of Mardi Gras.

The first part is nailed, I just got back from the closing and inspecting the house again.  The house is still quite charming, especially now that the hillbilly tenants are gone and the closing was most amusing.  One of the sellers was this vision in orchid/lavender/plum.  Her eye makeup, lip lacquer, jewelry, scarf, and pumps were an absolute purple symphony.  She wasn't just co-ordinated, it was more like some fashion cloning process.

It's thrilling ti be here talking with my friends Rich and Stephen, who will be handling the renovation for me, since they understand all my vague pronouncements about the changes I want, or at least pretend they do, and are generally able to avoid my sweeping hand gestures.  Photos to come.

Our first parade is Saturday night.  Fred's never seen one, so he's a virgin.  I'm sure it will be pretty hilarious, unless we all wind up in jail.  But isn't that always the way?

Cough, Cough

In my post The Return of Diane, Muscato impertantly demands details about Diane's visit claiming "We're waiting. Certainly there's enough depravity to recount by this point, no? After the weather we've had here this week, I could use a diversion…"  Tragically, there is no depravity to report; not just because I have turned into a fusty old thing, but mainly because I've been sick the whole time poor Diane's been here.

I developed an interestingly wheezing cough the day she arrived.  I tried to blame her cat in Austin, implying she had imported dander to which I was allergic, but she pooh poohed that with a firm pooh pooh and before I could fabricate any kind of evidence supporting my theory, I was spiraling down an all-too familiar path into our old friend, bronchitis.

I've contracted bronchitis so many times that now when I call my doctor with my self diagnosis, he no longer questions me, but just sends a prescription for antibiotics and probably a short prayer of gratitude that I'm keeping my snotty infection out of his waiting room.

Believe me, this re-enactment couldn't be any farther from the truth if it featured Bea Arthur and Carol Burnett.

The last few years I worked, I wound up with bronchitis each fall and then again at the tail end of every winter.  This, though, is the first time I've fallen for it since I retired, so yay for avoiding the filthy public and mass transit.

The only entertainments we've attempted have all wound up with me pathetically slumped over and coughing vigorously.  Still, the antibiotics have done their wonders and I'm pretty much recuperated tonight: unfortunately, tomorrow is Diane's last day in town,  rats.

The Return of Diane

After many starts and stops, unfortunate oops and errs, our dear friend Diane vonAustinburg finally will be appearing in the skies over San Francisco Wednesday afternoon and shortly thereafter we all will be tucking into a terribly groovy new restaurant based on a Venetian seafood bar.  It's called Pesce, Secret Agent Fred and I are wild for it, but not as wild as a chance to hang with Diane.

She'll be in town for about a week, we will cook, and beat thrift stores to their knees and in general hang out. Several other friends here have already demanded their share of the Diane-ness so her dance card is filling rapidly.  Her only request is that we hit some art installation at Grace Cathedral where some possibly deranged artist has hung 20 miles of colored ribbon from the ceiling.

Reports as they become available, or as I make them up.  Depends.

Things That Lead from One to Another in mrpeenee's Universe

This is one of the driest winters in California history.  Finally, this evening a smallish storm has rolled in and I opened the windows to revel in the pattering, got distracted by the internet and just now realized the house is filed with the pungent aroma of skunk.  What the hell, skunk?  You don't have anything better to do than wander around on the only rainy night this year stinking the place up?  Stupid dumb skunk.

While I was lost in the wonders of the world wide web, I stumbled across a series of references to what many authors claimed were the worst movies ever made, movies worse than the Lindsay Lohen oeuvre, a series by some schmoe named David DeCoteau. The series is called "1313."  I have no idea why they're considered a "series," they seem to have no discernible relation to each other except that the main feature of each is a bunch of attractive young men running around in their underpants.  Sounds good to me.

Here's the trailer from my favorite

Is that great or what?  Plus you know from the trailer that the movie is so bad that you don't need to waste any time actually watching it.  The trailer is sufficient unto itself.

Amazingly, one of the panty bitches was Corey Monteith.  Perhaprs you remember this Monteith person, he's the guy who OD'ed last year.  I only remember it because all the news outlets were slobbering so much about it at the time.  In researching semi-naked men of the 1313 world, I discovered I had completely mistaken just who Corey Monteith is.  Was.

This is Corey Monteith.  He's dead.

This is not Corey Monteith.  He's not dead, but he is who I've been thinking was Monteith all this time. What do you know?

But then I also ran across this, which actually looks funny.

It's on my list.

Up a Tree

During a recent spate of homo decorating madness, I had to move a bed and wound up standing its mattress and box springs on end against a wall, with a quilt bunched on top of it.  It was just temporary (I'm sure some of you were wondering if I planned on leaving it as an Art Statement,) but Saki was so thrilled with climbing up on top of it and hiding out in his new little lair, I left it up for several days.

Actually, that is an outright lie.  I was just too lazy and disorganized to finish the project, so the mattress stayed where it was and Saki got to perch up on it to his heart's content.  When I discovered that I didn't have to share my bed with him because he liked being up in the aerie, I thought about making it permanent, but instead decided to buy the little terror a cat tree.

Cat trees, in case you've missed them by paying too much attention to bootleg copies of East Enders, are those shag carpet covered totem pole affairs that feature so prominently in many lesbian decorating schemes.  I did not want a lesbian influenced look here, so I researched the subject and came up with one that seemed like it would be minimally offensive.  Ta dah:

And truly, it's not bad.  Saki, of course, refuses to have anything to do with it.  The two times I put him, firmly, on top of it, he immediately jumped off with an air of combined disgust and wariness, as if he had barely escaped from an assignation attempt.

Naturally, he is much more attracted to the box it came in.  Ingrate.