In Which We Dabble in Art

Were you the one in the gimp suit?

 When Super Agent Fred died in back in September, I inherited, along with Toby, the world's sweetest cat, all of Fred's artwork.  Our friends and Fred's family took everything they wanted (I announced at the funeral no one would be allowed to leave without taking something.  I was fully prepared to turn the whole thing into a hostage situation) but even so, there was still quite a bit left.  My plan is to set up a website and advertise it as free art on Craigslist and see what happens. I'm trying not to use the phrases "unload" or "get rid of" but my delicate sensibilities will only go so far and I would really like to share some with the wider world and out of my guest room.

I had initially thought I would photograph each piece for the site, but after almost 4 months of doing exactly Jack shit, I contracted with a photographer to come in and shoot them for me.  So he was here this afternoon and managed in a little more than 2 hours to accomplish more than I was able to in 13 weeks.

He was very pleasant and very capable and I was glad of it. The schedule is that I will get the pictures back from him next week.  I've already set up the site and will try to overcome the slacker inertia which is such a charming part of my personality so that I can load all the pictures up there.  I will keep you naughty pusses abreast of developments.

He also came fully equipped with the affordable perfume so beloved by tradesman everywhere.  When I owned my own home and had to deal with the maintenance there, I got to be so familiar with it, I came to think of it as eau d' plumber.  I don't understand why any guy who comes to work on your place is guaranteed to arrive a few seconds behind a cloud of cologne.  And not just any cologne, but one with a sharp pungency which drills through my nose into my sinuses and from there into my skull. 

Both of the cats demonstrated their individual personalities when confronted with the photographer's invasion of their space.  Toby was friendly and wanted pets and demanded to be allowed in the room where he was shooting just so he could keep an eye on things.  Octavia was initially sort of skittish, but then decided she couldn't be bothered and went back to bed. 

I'm looking forward to organizing the Super Agent Fred Memorial Free Art Giveaway.  Initially when I was wrestling all of the pieces into my guest room, I thought there was about 50 or 60 of them.  Today, it turned out there are, in fact, more than 200.  So there's plenty to go around, no pushing please.  But nobody is getting out of here without at least one. 

Guys who are works of art:

I just love these bigguns.

I don't know how much work he has expended on thoser abs, but t was all worth it.

Get in loser, we're going to the mall.

In the studio

Plop

Don't think about summer being over, think about it coming now that we've passed the solstice.

Chiaroscuro

Nice calves.

In Which We're at Home with Nature's Architects

 

When I was just a young and impressionable peenee, I was presented with a diagram of a Beaver Lodge and I was instantly enchanted.  Yeah, I realize now it is dark and wet and muddy and cold and smells like stinky old beavers, but at the time, and even still, it seemed so cozy.  And it has secret entrances! What could be more cool? 

Since then I have fallen for other animal habitats that give off the same sense of a safe enclosure.  Surely I was not the only one to be disappointed to find out turtles don't wander around with an empty house on their back, but rather, a skeleton stuffed full of gooey organs.

Ditto snails.

Top of the charts of course are rabbit warrens.  Not just one hidden away snug little room, but an entire complex of them.  Nooks and crannies and rooms and hangout spaces.  Salons even.  All of it full of bunnies.  What could be better? 

So along has come the wholy misguided fascination with tiny homes.  They seem like something that would be right up mrpeenee's fascination with snug animal asylums, but oh nuh uh.  I am a tall guy and when I speak about having a roof over my head, I want it to be considerably farther over said head than these little toy houses allow. So you can keep your cramped little shacks.  I would rather live with the beavers.  

Guys I want to snuggle up with: 

So Merry Christmas to all you naughty pusses from mrpeenee and Sam Dekker.

I'm not going to even bother asking who's on the nice list because what are the chances with my readership?

I know perfectly well what would happen if some hairy old man appeared in the homes of you bitches. 

Steve Kelso, now with candy cane. 

I don't know who that sort of feral looking top guy might be, but that is our old favorite Jay Tee on cocksucking duty. 

Speaking of pornstars I can identify, here we have Jaxton Wheeler.  Look, I didn't misspell his stupid name, he just showed up with it like that.

And to, all a good night. 

But keep an eye out for Krampus.

In Which We Bake Off

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In Which We Do Not Age Gracefully

 

There are days when waking up takes all the energy I have.  I lie there, nothing more than a lump in bed, and try to bargain with my bladder.  "Look just let me go back to sleep and I will piss as much as you want in a couple of hours."  That works just about as well as you might expect. 

Turning into an old man was never part of my plan.  I had somehow envisioned being 40 years old for several decades and then peacefully dying in the arms of a muscly Go-Go boy.  I don't know how that scheme went awry, but here we are, Grouchy and Creaky, the two dwarves who didn't want to put up with Snow White's bullshit.

On those ill-advised occasions when I do get out of bed, I am an absolute symphony of small explosions.  It's one thing to have my joints sing out, but I swear even bones that don't move get in on the racket.  Just walking across the room sounds like a bucket of kindling meeting a bulldozer.  I have occasionally yawned and my jawbone makes such a loud crack it makes my ears ring.  Why is my own skeleton turning against me?  Why?

I hung out with a dear old friend recently who is the same age as I but in much much better shape.  Bitch.  I was telling her about my plans to go to London and Paris this spring and she was trying to convince me not to take a cab from the airport in Paris.  Instead, her bright idea was that I should take the train into town, transfer to the Metro to some station in the vicinity of the hotel and then walk.  Walk.  I explained that even after a good night's sleep in my own bed and unencumbered with luggage, I can barely make it a block up the street here to go drink coffee at my favorite cafe.  I could tell she thought I was exaggerating, but people have thought that about me most of my life and I have refined the ability to ignore them into an art.  We will be taking a cab. 

Guys who are most certainly not old.  Yet.

This week's blog is brought to you by the letter "ass".

Paolo Belucci and his lovely dick snout.

Putting the "ass" in "massive".

In the closet.

Strapped in and ready to rock.

My brother Mike tried to teach me how to help install drywall, but after he saw my best attempt at mudding and finishing, he just asked "How did you do that?" and then he sent me off to wash paint brushes.  I think I just needed a teacher who looked like this