Seven Big Ones

Ha, ha, fooled you. Not Big Ones like that.

Bob, over at I Should Be Laughing, has presented me with the (immensely deserved) Premium Meme Award. It’s terribly of sweet of the old dear, so big thanks to him. And the Academy.

I have absolutely no idea where Premium Meme came from; Googling it leads to some pretty darn amusing blogs, but its origins are lost in the mist of the interwebs.

Anyway, not only does it come with this swell, albeit tiny, art piece

It also involves rules. To whit: list seven of your personality traits, as evidenced on your blog and then pass the award on to seven other blogs with notable personality.

1) I’m lazy. I would blog a great deal more, but the burden of sitting down and typing complete words is just overwhelming. Besides, coming up with topics to post interferes with my nap time. Completely unacceptable

2) I’m lecherous. Pretty much the only thing that will stir me out of slouching in a chair, staring off into space is the prospect of boybutt. Boybutt. Mmmm.

3) I am gluttonous. Why eat two chocolate covered marshmallow cookies when you can eat the whole box? You never know when your husband will find them and eat them himself, the piggy little thing.

4) I’m greedy. I could share those chocolate covered marshmallow cookies, but then how could I eat them?

5) I’m wrathful. If I can muster the energy after you have crossed me, I will say nasty things about you behind your back. Take that, bitch.

6) I’m envious. I look at how many followers all my little blog friends have and think, “Damn. I want elventy bazillion followers, too.” But then I see how many comments they get on every single post, and I remember how bad I feel about not replying to the ones I already get and I realize “Mmmmaybe not so much.”

7) I am so proud. Did I tell you I won the Premium Meme Award? Did I mention I live in the most beautiful city in the world even though I don’t deserve it? Did I point out in the post asking how many mens my readers had sexed it up with, I came in so far ahead you couldn’t even see my dust? Oh, I did? Silly me.

OK, OK, enough about little me. With a flourishing rip of the envelope, I award the Premium Meme award to

Jason

Muscato

The Other Andrew

Ray Ray

Ayem8y Mean Dirty Pirate

Donna Lethal

Michael Guy

Mitzi

TJB

P A Bohemian Stephen

I know it's more than seven, I may not be able to edit, but I can count. I'm an overachiever.

Go to it.

Lively Up Your Commute

I took the subway up to the Castro after work this evening to meet R Man. Naturlement, it was jam-packed, but I nimbly snagged my favorite place to stand if I can't get a seat and then, as a reward from the goddess for all my sweetness and wonderfulness, this terribly cute young man in a lovely black suit with charcoal pinstripes wedged in next to me. Even our positions were ideal, I was able to ogle him without being vulgarly obvious. Not that that has ever slowed me down particularly, but it's nice to avoid it, if one can.

But the very most best part? As we pulled into the Castro station he bent over to pick up his briefcase/backpack/manpurse/clutch/whatever and bumped his ass very firmly into my hand. Not on purpose, get real. And I WAS NOT GROPING HIM. Had I been doing so, I certainly would have done a better job of it than the brief, but thrilling contact I managed. I got off the car humming, it takes so little to make me happy in these, my declining years.

Unfortunately, he was not Ross Hurston, pictured above, although he was dressed even nicer. I've seen Hurston on the street here a couple of times. One of the sweetest things about San Francisco are the feral porn stars we get to observe. I was surprised to find out he has an Australian accent, but then I was surprised to find out porn had dialogue, so I guess that makes sense.

More Dan Tits, Less Taschika. Moving in the Right Design Star Direction

Some of the most beautiful words uttered on Design Star: "Tashicka, Your Show Has been Canceled. And, By the Way, You're an Untalented, Whiny, Gasbag Hack." Even better, the way the judges finally just admitted they were not even going to pretend to deliberate about it, but just shove her ass out onto the street. I'm amazed they let her use the door and didn't force her to climb out a window. I would have.

Plus, finally, an all-too-brief view of Dan with his shirt off.

The competition? Uhm, I think stupid might be the word I'm looking for here. You're going to convert your garage to living space, fine. Since you have it filled with crap instead of using it to store your car, why not?

So wouldn't the primary consideration on the transformation seem to be getting rid of the garage door? I mean, what else defines a big square room as a garage? And yet, neither team did, and one REPLACED the old one with nice new one. Am I missing something? Is there a new decorating rage in suburbia for a wall that rolls up to allow an unobstructed view of the driveway? Maybe if you were shooting at some wacky post-industrial mechanized biker chic, but that's not the story here.

The results? Dumb. Dull. Lot of shrieking around and flailing and hard work, but no pay off. Plus the ceilings are just raw old garage wood. I'm starting to think none of these guys are exactly design Einstiens.

Lastly, this one got lambasted for being dull.Well, yes, but honey, they're shopping at Sears. I think they should be commended for not winding up with Early American wagon wheel chandiliers.

I also still claim Nathan, the tiny little gay elf, might be a Hidden Talent. If he can survive being on teams that suck, we'll see. And I still can't tell the two blondes Ladies apart.

QSFI

I went to my first meeting of my queer sci-fi book club tonight. Eight very nice guys, not at all the nerd fest I was dreading. There was a wide range of opinions about the book we discussed, Flora Secunda. Most of them pretty much stuck with “I liked it…” or “I didn’t like it…” and then a sentence or maybe two about some detail that had struck them. Not mrpeenee. I adore sharing my opinions; perhaps you’ve noticed. After all, my insights are so darn insightful it would be selfish to keep them to myself.

I really let loose about how much I enjoyed the book (and I truly did, it’s charming,) how it compared to other examples within the genre, the queer subtext of two of the characters, the clever sendups of the clichés in fantasy writing, all the good stuff. I believe I used the word “trope,” and I used it correctly.

My sister clubbers seemed a little overwhelmed. I could see them wondering, “Does this queen think she’s Oprah?” But I had a good time. I haven’t had a chance to talk about reading like this since I was in school and then I was so shy, so blanketed with self-directed homophobia, I would never have dreamed of taking the floor so assertively. I seemed to have blossomed, or, possibly, over-ripened.

We also chatted about the book coming up next month. At some point since the rise of Lord of the Rings in the late hippie era, science fiction split off into two main arenas: hard sci-fi and fantasy. Hard stuck more with possibilities of actual science, computer and astronomy usually. Fantasy, influenced by Tolkien, wandered off into magic and parallel universes. It’s more concerned with metaphysics than physics. The shorthand way to talk about the split is space cowboys vs. elves. I tend to prefer fantasy, although not exclusively, but I suspect the rest of the group are more of the Space Cowboy ilk. We’ll see.

Viva le Weekend

Cat porn:


Also, I finally planted the dahlias and the Coleonema I bought last week at the shmancy nursery. I keep forgetting the name "coleonema" but it's common name is "Breath of Heaven" and who could forget that? The foliage has a lovely spicy scent, so much so, that I moved it to the very front of the bed so I can smell it without crawling across all the other plants in the way. They hate it when you do that. And I love the striped agave. I know the correct term is "variegated," but let's face it, this is STRIPED. I wish I had gotten more, but if I had, I'm sure I couldn't have made the mortgage this month. Priorities, darling, priorities.


A little orphan mum I snagged at the half price place earlier this summer that was abjectly pathetic it was so straggledy looking. I whacked it way back and it has repaid my tough love now with some charming rose pink flowers, which is ok with me, especially since I thought it was probably going to be either white or yellow.


And sweet peas. The little old lady of the garden. More lovely scent. Plus, you have to plant the seeds in April if you want flowers in July and I always forget so I'm terribly pleased with myself for remembering. Yay me.

Busted. Sort of.

My Gay Men's Science Fiction book club is meeting this Sunday to discuss Flora Segunda, a book I hadn't even started until last night. Omigosh, it's just like being back in college, except I'm bald, paunchy, and not loaded. But aside from that, the unprepared for my assigned reading part I still have down pat. So I took today off from work, planning on staying at home, eating cookies and reading like a fiend. Which I did for a while, Flora Segunda turns out to be most charming, but then I got distracted. Darn porn.

Let me just say this about Brad Patton's enormous man meat: merciful heavens. Once I got past all that, I turned to catching up with my little blog friends. How I miss you all ever since my agency installed their evil web filter that won't let me peruse your chatter. I really do work, you know. I crank out press releases on subjects so arcane I have no idea what I'm talking about and I do it with panache. I administer a training program of more than 400 classes a year with an audience of around 10,000 businesses who think I am a god. I refrain from slapping anyone, ANYONE, professionally. And I did it all while keeping up with the bloglandia. But no more. Rats.

Speaking of my job, it and the interwebs collided last week when I was contacted on my mrpenee email by two people asking me to be their friend on Facebook, two people I only know through work and whom I do not relish knowing that my handle is "mrpeenee." As soon as I finished screaming like a little girl, I rushed over to the Facebook/Myspace/Nolife page and deactivated my account. Thombeau and Donna Lethal and who knows who else are very active there, but they have more grooviness in their fingernail clippings than I do in my entire being, so trying to keep up with them is pointless.

Knowing how the internet works, I'm sure it's too late. I don't even know if I had a link from Myspace to this blog, but if these queens could hunt me down, I shudder to think what else they can find.

When I was a regular habitue of the local sex clubs I was always a little concerned that I would run into someone I knew from my work. Naturally, I did a couple of times, and we would just both pretend to ignore the hard-ons hanging out of our pants, but still and all, a teensy awkward. We also used to see our mailman at Blow Buddies ALL THE TIME. He had those major pencil eraser nipples and would suck anything that was big, no matter what form of nastiness it was attached to.

Anyway.

I know, I know, "don't put up anything you don't want your mother or your boss to read" but what funs is that? The enchiladas I had for lunch and the local weather already comprise a big chunk of what I write about. If I cut out everything else, who'd want to read this? I certainly wouldn't.

As a mark of my defiance, here’s a houseboy

Garden Art

Wait, wait, what do you mean it’s Sunday night? I was just getting used to the weekend. Damn.

And what a sweet, quiet little weekend it was too. We had lunch with friends, one of whom suggested we head over to a nursery because they have an excellent coffee bar there. That, I think, is San Francisco at a glance. No experience is complete without espresso. But because there is no nursery I would every turn down, we were off. The place is called Flora Grubb, which has to be the greatest name for a plant purveyor ever, plus it turns out to be the real name of the owner. She was very sweet, too.

Total fabulosity, everywhere you looked was inspiration, thrilling inspiration. A real strong point was their ability to contrast the textures of adjacent plants so beautifully.

They specialize in vertical assemblies of succulents, big hangings that are like abstract paintings. Did I mention the old Edsel they’ve turned into a planter, with a big ass palm tree bursting through the rook and the engine block turned into a cactus garden? Totally too cool. With lattes.

And EXPENSIVE, bitches. I bought two dahlias, a small cypress, an agave and a pot and it was $140. Onehundredandfortyfuckingdollars. Had I dropped that much at the cheap little nursery I usually go to, I wouldn’t have been able to fit it all in the car.

Still, I’m glad we went. The whole thing appealed to me like an excellent art museum, but even better cause, you know, gardens. With lattes.