In Which We are Victimized Before We Indulge Musically

 

Oh goddamit.  Once again, some fucking THIEF has swiped my credit card number.  This happens on the regular so often that I am no longer irate about it, but rather, simply sort of glum.  I know this dance all too well; my credit card company (much more vigilant than I am about these things) contacts me to ask about some purchase they deem sketchy.  Spoiler alert: it is sketchy.  Once I acknowledge that I have never heard of the vendor or purchase, they cancel my card and I get to brace myself for several weeks of trying to remember which automatic payments and subscriptions I need to update.  Is this a way to celebrate Christmas?  Apparently it is.

In other xmas news, I have decided this year to not indulge in my annual rant against Christmas music.  I have clearly established how I despise the mewling tones of the tunes for, as Jon over at Razzle Dazzle puts it, the Festering Season. 

Instead I will give it up for the one exception I am willing to make every year and that is for Darlene Love and her bombshell, Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).  I am not the only one so very taken by this song, her appearance on the David Letterman show was an annual event from 1994 to 2014.  After the end of the Letterman show, she moved her act to The View from 2015 until 2023.  That is quite a run, and a well-deserved one. 

Ms Love has one of the great, powerful voices in rhythm and blues.  There are very few singers who can match her when she digs in and really starts belting out.  Her collaboration with Phil Spector in the '60s was a work of genius, and Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) is a prime example of that. The song is buoyant with his trademark massive Wall-o-Sound, but Darlene Love's powerhouse singing actually manages to match it.

Without further ado, take it away Darlene.

Baby, please come home:

I find the word "panties" to be so luridly thrilling.

I think this portion of my blog, and its fascination with dicks and butts, does not give enough attention to tiddies.

Also, nut sacs.

Still, it's hard to argue with buttchops like this.

Diego Sans remains studly.

Xtra beefy

I had a good time last week in Texas, but the enchiladas were shockingly disappointing.  Shocking.

My hotel's shower was very nice, but could have been improved by a muscly companion therein.

In Which We Return to the Old Country

 

It has been 45 years since I lived in Texas, more than half my life, but my family insists on referring to my occasional returns there as "coming home".  In fact, coming home is what happens when I get off the plane in San Francisco.

I will be spending the weekend in Houston visiting my family and stuffing myself with the excellent Mexican food and barbecue that is so available there.  

There are plenty of people who are rather sniffy about Tex-Mex food, but I am not responsible for their eating disorders.  Tex-Mex is simply the finest evolution of Mexican food.  Many of those same people will go on that tiresome length about the different regional cuisines of Mexico; my claim is that Texas is simply one of those regions.  Change my mind, as the kids say these days.

Of course there's more to jetting off to Texas than enchiladas and ribs, my only remaining brother has Parkinson's and is apparently not doing well so I'm going to be checking in on him and seeing if I can harass him into feeling better.  I am 70 years old and he still regards me as his "little brother".  I think that's adorable. 

Also our dear, dear niece Amber will be making an appearance with her very amusing husband Spanky.  The fact she was thoughtful enough to provide me with a nephew named Spanky is enough to earn my eternal gratitude.  Our first naked guy of the week is in her honor:

In Which We Snuggle

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

In Which We Live the Cafe Life

 

When I was young and wild, I had a favorite bar, but now I have calmed down considerably and have a favorite cafe instead.  I'm sure soon I will be reduced to having a favorite doctor's waiting room.  So all that means I frequently mention my adventures in Peet's, the world's finest cafe.  When I was looking for an apartment, my primary requirement was being near Peet's, since real estate is all about location, location, location. The sweet place where I now hang my head popped up a block from Peet's and I was immediately sold.  I would have put up with rats and asbestos if I needed to, fortunately it turned out to be a lovely apartment. 

Being so close to the mecca of lattes and pastries means I can go there every single day.  And I'm glad I do, if it wasn't for Peet's, I would have long since turned into a shut-in talking to my cat even more than I already do.  Not that I actually speak to anyone at the cafe, god forbid, but all the baristas know me so always have a little chit chat with them and then I ignore everyone else, but I still have to deal with overhearing my fellow customers, so very many of whom are idiots.  I recently heard some guy patiently explain to his middle-aged female companion that tuna came in cans.  Bitch, what? How could you you live in this world as long as you apparently have without knowing how to get tuna? 

More to today's point is that I realize I have never shared what my beloved Pete's looks like.  So here's a quick little tour to let everyone know when I mention the old place what I am talking about.

Isn't this the coziest place you've ever laid eyes on?

This counter marooned in the middle of the room is what I have privately dubbed No Man's Land.  Its awkward height and exposed situation means nobody wants to sit there.  If I walk in and someone is parked at it, I know all the seats in the joint are already taken and I will have to fight for a perch.

Speaking of seats, this is my favorite.  I can sit here and watch all the action out on the sidewalk and at the same time turn my back on the madness going on inside.

Eye candy is a frequent bonus.

I usually avoid the table seating mostly because that just encourages my eavesdropping tendency.

Command central.

Surprise.  I jusr wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

Guys with whom I'd like to have a cup o' joe:

Jeebus on the cross and meat in the seat.

I love when a boy's butt chops overwhelm his panties.

Speaking of things which overwhelm me.

I've been bingeing a British police procedural series called Line of Duty and I am digging it.  Tragically, none of the actors look anywhere near like this.

Isn't that inviting?

I don't know why the show is so po-faced about cute guys, apparently there is plenty of fine British beef.

In Which Toby Frolics

My substantial collection of fancy Chinese Art Deco rugs is one of my favorite things I own.  It also suffered from Unfortunate Liquids when my late cat Octavia was so sick these last few week.  And so I shipped all the rugs off to be washed and I'm looking forward to a stinky-free future soon.  

The floor here is that fake wood flooring in a gray taupe non-color that is so popular with all the hip kids who have had their taste eliminated by the internet.  The rugs add a welcome amount of color and texture and keep my little tootsies warm, but I hadn't realized they also have been suppressing my cat Toby's entertainment. 

Since the fake wood floors hard slick surface has been revealed, Toby has been gleefully chasing and pouncing on toys he previously ignored.  The toys skitter in a way that makes him crazy.  I had thought Toby didn't really like toys, but it was just that he didn't have the right arena for his skills. 

Usually whenever I try to interest Toby in some toy time, he looks at me like he's concerned for my mental well-being.  He seems slightly insulted when I throw a ball towards him or try to get him to chase some stuffed little mouse.  And yet, when I later walk back in the room there will be toys scattered everywhere indicating some bacchanal has occurred without me.  It hurts my feelings a little bit.  

But for the next week or so, Toby will have all the hunt and kill enrichment a little kitty could ask for.  That catnip filled iguana had just better watch out. 

Men I'd like to play with:

The admirably meaty Brock Magnus.

There is nothing sexier than a man with pretty hair and a hot pussy who reads.

Humpiness is next to godliness.

Ready to rock.

Proof that I can appreciate aged beef.

Open for business.

Tasty

In which We Lose an Email

Huston, I hope you see this, I'm sorry, but I lost the email you sent about the Super Agent Fred art you wanted. Please send it again.

Also, if anyone is looking for free art, absolutely no-cost-to-you art, check out

Super Agent Fred's art

In Which We Say Goodbye to Octavia

Whenever you take on a pet, you do so with the knowledge that no matter how much you love them, you are almost certainly going to outlive them.  It's just part of the deal; you get to clean up their poop and feed them and come home to the wreckage they have created and they in turn sleep on top of you and purr and absolutely own your heart.  And you get to deal with the grief of letting them go. 

So that brings us to Octavia, the world's absolute most sweetest cat ever.  Just a little more than 2 weeks ago, she developed a urinary tract infection, which is not uncommon in old ladies of any species.  Even after I got that settled down, she never really recovered, and stopped eating.  A trip to the emergency vet revealed she had a mass on her pancreas and a couple more in her liver.  I am strongly opposed to putting an animal through the misery of chemotherapy; as one vet who agreed with me put it, "they didn't sign up for that" and so I have just been trying to keep her comfortable. 

Last week I came face-to-face with the realization that it was time to quit putting off the inevitable.  In only a couple of weeks she has lost probably half of her body weight, her back legs no longer work, and she can barely drink.  So I have scheduled a vet to come here this afternoon and put her to sleep. 

I went through this with Saki a few years ago and I know it is genuinely painless and the right thing, but oh man, it is so difficult.  When I adopted Octavia a year and a half ago, I did so knowing she was a pretty old cat and that our time together would probably be short, but I had really hoped it might be longer than this.  Nevertheless, I'm glad I did it.  She has been loving and sweet, and I'm glad she didn't have to live out the end in a cage at Cat Jail. 

I know naked guys don't really fit with this post necessarily, but they always make me feel better, at least a little, so I will include them here: 

The author requests that you refrain from jokes about pussy.

Why do these cute guys insist on including their dirty laundry in these pics?

All the meat you can eat.

Just hangin out

Asstastic

This would make me feel better, I think.