In Which We Clean House

 

I have spent the last week organizing and cleaning out super agent Fred's apartment.  Considering it is only a studio, there certainly was a lot of crap to get through.  A huge chunk was Fred's art supplies. Photographic evidence supplied:

 

I had discovered a recycling place here in town that would take art supplies.  They had very clear standards about what they would take, but they would even come and haul them off IF you packed them up in specific boxes and there had to be at least six boxes.  No problem hitting the minimum box.  Photographic evidence applied: 

I spent all day packing paints and brushes and who knows what.  Artist esoterica, that's what.  Then I went to the recycler's website to arrange for them to come schlep it all off only to be met by a notice there saying they were taking a break from donations.  As you can see in the picture above, the windows were all blocked with the flotsam and jetsam I have been dealing with which was fortunate because otherwise I would have thrown myself out one.

I lay in bed that evening crippled and concerned the cats would figure out I was too weak to fend them off and they would eat me, all the while trying to conceive a plan that would allow me to unload nine very heavy boxes of art supplies.  That's when I remembered my old friend Craigslist.  When I sold my house, I put a listing on there announcing free crap and there was a line out the door on the day of the crap fest.  Following that plot, I posted a listing for Fred's stuff and within 12 hours I had agreed to meet some guy over there who was the lucky winner of all the equipment a budding artist could want. 

I also now have more than 200 responses in my email from Craigslist aficionados, but first come,  first serve.  Also, two things that made me glad I went with the first guy.  He was not only interested in the art stuff, but willing to take all sorts of other random junk I was trying to get rid of.  Yay.  And he was really cute in a classically California surfer boys sort of way.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Anyway.  Everyday when I go over to the apartment and work and work, I think "Oh thank God, I'm almost through." And then the next time I come back whatever progress I made seems to have evaporated and I am confronted with a mountain of Fredtastic debris.  But after today, thanks to the Craigslist cutie, I think I am pretty much finished.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Before

After

Cute guys who may or may not be on Craigslist:

You know how fond I am of gingers.

The terror of the locker room, hopefully.

Ready to rumble.

Honestly, I'm too tired to come up with captions for nekkid guys.

The old peekaboo pose.

In Which We Have News from the Cat House

 

Two weeks ago when we introduced Toby the cat here, I didn't mention that Toby had originally been Secret Agent Fred 's cat.  He moved over here when Fred got too sick to take care of him and now he's my cat.  I'm very glad to have him, but it seems like a sad consolation prize for Fred's death. 

Toby is the world's sweetest cat.  As I write this, he is curled up next to me with his head on my shoulder.  I am overwhelmed with the sweetness.  Sweet, sweet, sweet.  Tout sweet.  When I would visit them, Fred would be lounging in bed and Toby would walk over his face and then lay down on top of his head.  I would always think how glad I was that I never had a cat inclined towards trying to suffocate me.  And now I do.  I just hate cheap irony.

Speaking of introductions, how did the one between Octavia and Toby go?  Not bad, but not the way I expected either.  Toby is younger and bigger than Octavia so I was afraid he might pick on her, but that is not the way this funny old world rolls.  When I opened the door to let them meet each other, Octavia immediately let loose with a string of growls and hisses.  I was shocked at such language from a respectable old widda lady.   

That was a little more than a week ago and things have settled down to a sort of stiff-legged detente.  She is still hissy, but not as implacably.  Toby, on the other hand, just wants to be friends.  His attitude seems to be pretty much "bitch, what is wrong with you?"  As you can see in the picture above, they are willing to hang out in the same room, which is an improvement over the initial hostilities.  Baby steps.  Baby steps. 

Guys, I'd like to hang out with:

I just love humpy boys with blank-eyed expressions.  Intelligence is so overrated.

It's still warm enough for tanning.  Get busy.

He looks like he would be a load of laffs.

Extra beefy.

... and extra firm.

I appreciate how they have roped him and his buttchops off for crowd control, no doubt.

Honey, I think you dropped your parachute.

In Which Flights of Angels, Baby, Flights of Angels

 

When an old friend dies, they take with them all the shared vocabulary and jokes you had.  Secret Agent Fred died Wednesday afternoon.  We had almost 30 years of dumb, inside wisecracks that no one else would have found particularly amusing, but which meant a lot to our tiny little brains.  Now I will no longer be able to say to anyone, "zip your clam."  Well, I suppose I could say it, but the charm of it would be missing.

I don't think I ever knew anyone as capable of living life on his own terms as Fred was.   He was funny and charming and I will miss him.  Zip your clam, bitch.

In Which We Texas, Just a Little

 

Yes indeedy, I have returned to the swampy embrace of Houston, my childhood home. I tell people I am originally from Houston, that is a lie; in reality, the nasty little suburb I grew up in is about 2 hours east of where I am now.  That's okay, it's all Houston.  I managed to escape the Gulf Coast of Texas 49 years ago, but my family still refers to my trips back here as "coming home".  Bitch, home is California, and 10 minutes on a Houston freeway makes me glad of it.

But I AM looking forward to Mexican food and some excellent barbecue. 

To be fair, there are moments when the old place can be charming.  It had been cloudy and rainy all day before I got here which helps ameliorate the hellish temps that are the norm in August.  I was in a good mood and prepared to be charmed so I walked over to a particularly fine donut shop and the air was soft, balmy in fact, with a little breeze. 

The particularly fine donuts are about a block away from my hotel.  I say "about" because the hotel is literally surrounded on all sides by parking lots.  There seems to be a nominal street that wanders through them, but it is very difficult to discern.  The easiest way to access the hotel is to just plow through some random parking lot.

I'm very fond of this hotel, it's attractively decorated with an actual sense of humor. And they have delicious deviled eggs in the dining room. 

The look is very plush with lots of velvet and marble and brass.  It's a design that says "I only employ the very finest hookers." 

The view from the balcony includes some of the ubiquitous parking lot, the lush green, perfectly flat landscape off in the distance, and of course, the freeway, all 18 lanes of it.  Eighteen.  Lanes.  Eighteen. Motherfucking. Lanes.

The bathroom is absolutely enormous, bigger than my bedroom at home, with the toilet discreetly enclosed in its own room.  What simply enchants me is:

A small room that opens off of the toilet.  It's finished with fancy tile work, attractive wallpaper,  and a small piece of art, but it has nothing else in it.  It has no apparent function, it's only about 8 feet wide and is, let me repeat, completely empty. I have no idea what's going on here.  Maybe it's where you send the hookers when they've been bad. 

I wish room service would send up some hookers that look like this:

I think he would look lovely in the little empty room.

The always welcome Nicolo Neri

How come some other grumpy old man gets to have this in his hotel room and all I get is the Mystery Chamber?

I have a nicer bathroom than that, even if it does not come equipped with muscle pussy.

I can already tell the Little Empty Room is going to weigh on my mind.

Where were these guys when I was a little baby gay trapped in Texas?

In Which We Are Further Be-Catted

 

Dudes and dudettes, say hello to our newest kitty passenger, Toby.  Toby is a Leo and he's very fond of stinky cat food, long walks on the beach, and hates his cat carrier.  He is also a very, very enthusiastic digger in his cat litter box, to the point of it being some kind of civil engineering project.

He appears to be constructed out of some super secret, extra heavy cat material since he is only a little bigger than my old cat Saki, but feels like he weighs about twice as much.  How is that possible?  Cats, that's how.  For that matter, Octavia only weighs about 10 pounds but she's able to shed 20 pounds of cat hair on a given day.  How is any of that possible?  

Speaking of Octavia, how is she taking this new interloper?  There's no telling; Toby is currently quarantined in my bathroom and hisses at her when he senses her on the other side of the door.  I'm surprised, Toby is one of the world's sweetest kitties, so maybe he's just still shaken up from being transported.  Octavia just seems sort of befuddled.  She had only just gotten over the fervid excitement of a Diane von Austinburg visit and now this. 

I suppose time will tell, I'm going to leave him in my bathroom until cabin fever makes him willing to interact in a polite manner.  We'll see. 

Alley cat guys:

It's possible this is AI, the background seems sort of scrambled in that AI sort of way.

Diane was taking exception to so many of our naked guys being naked youths.  Not sorry.

Freaky cowboys: where were they when I was a baby gay in Texas?

Markus Bailette and his rump.

The classic Landing Pad pose.

The beefy backside boy.

For all you daddy lovers.

In Which Mikey is a Hero

 

I've been having a difficult couple of weeks and was sort of stewing in my unhappiness when our old chum, Mikey from Chaturbate, texted me to share his outrage.  It seems that he had just found a pair of pet turtles that someone had thrown away in the garbage. 

Naturally, being the sweet, sweet boy he is, Mikey saved them.  He brought them home, gave them clean water and some fish food and, for all I know, affectionate little pet names.  I was absolutely appalled that someone would throw away living creatures like garbage.  

After venting the outrage he shared with me, Mikey said he was going to list them on a donation website to see if someone wanted to adopt them. And before we could even exchange more chatty texts, some lady had contacted him and asked for his little orphan turtles.

The whole exchange cheered me up immensely, which was something I definitely could use.  Two little baby turtles, cast out into a cold, hard world only to be saved by a pair of reptile lovin' strangers.  If that doesn't bring a tear to your eye, then you are just a hard-hearted doodoo head, you mammal.

Speaking of animal rescues, here:

Combining animal love and freaky sex, what could be better?

Ready for adoption, free to a good home.

Cute guys dancing in the sun can improve my mood too.

Diane von Austinburg is visiting and providing advice about nekkid guys.

She was demanding more "daddies"

And thus, Freddy Miller, daddy-at-large.

Ian Cage, big and beautiful