You Know, Halloween's Coming

I understand this story is not funny, it is, in fact, tragic on many levels.  And yet, because I have the same sense of humor I had in junior high, I cannot helped being amused by the many odd, odd elements of it.

To wit: two naked, gay, Wiccans (and doesn't that sound like a bad joke your uncle would tell?  Two naked gay Wiccans walk into a bar....) in a nasty little burg near here called Vallejo apparently went off their meds, killed their pet duck, busted out the windows of their own cars, set their house on fire and then one of them pulled a rifle on responding police officers and was shot dead.

Wow.

Oh, also, our crack local media outlet reports "The slain man had a collection of 400 fluorescent lightbulbs in a shed in the backyard."  Cause, you know, we need to know that.

Again, I understand some poor sick man was so tormented by his own demons he wound up dead.  Not funny.

The pet duck and the fluorescent lightbulbs, on the other hand, almost funny.  Sort of funny.

OK, I'm ashamed.

Here, eye candy:

Funnies

Many thanks to Muscato for pointing us towards Mary Worth and Me which I have been plowing through all night.  A blurb on the site announces "Reminds us of Mystery Science Theater 3000" which is sort of close, but doesn't do it justice.

The funnies of my 1960s youth still fascinate me, Ms Worth certainly in that firmament, along with Juliet Jones (prissy bitch) and the vaguely homorific Gil Thorpe.  Actually, I realize Gil was only gay because I had a big ole crush on him and his industrial strength crew cut.

and because the strip could be relied on for frequent scenes set in a high school locker room's showers.


My fave was Brenda Starr, Reporter.  When I was fumbling through journalism school, I had a charming blown up picture of Ms Star announcing fierily, as her eyes did their patented blaze "I don't speak to entertainment press."  It was a quote I longed to use myself, but oddly, never got to.

Slightly better, here's one I just found.

We've all been there, haven't we?  The stringy hair, the long shower trying to wash the shame away, the oh-so-conveneint amnesia.  Speaking as the voice of experience (much like Mary Worth!) I say if the police aren't asking uncomfortable questions, it's probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks.  How good could they have been?  Move on sweetie.

M, Our 1,000th Post and mrpeenee, Destroyer of Slugs

I have a striking addition to the garden, a variegated Brugmansia.

Our heroine in February

Nowadays.  Please note chewed-the-fuck-up leaves.

I was very struck by it when we met at the nursery cause I had never seen a variegated one before.  Beautiful big chartreuse and lemon yellow leaves, someday it will be seven feet tall with huge, salmon pink drooping blossoms.  It's already doing quite well, pretty much tripling in size since last spring, despite some pest chewing up its big leaves.

That's why when I saw this banana slug (one of the goddess's most grotesque grotesqueries) loitering near it this morning, with a completely unconvincing air of innocence, I moved to destroy Mr. Slug without a moment's hesitation.  Mercy is not an option when it comes to protecting my broadleaved semi-tropical darlings.

Slug, meet salt.

Salt, meet slug.

You know how to kill a slug?  You either can feed it to your duck, and had I duck I would have, or you can pour salt on it.  The slug dissolves into a goo slime, hopefully in a spasm of agony.  I would feel some compunction about this if it hadn't been feeding on one of my plant favorites and besides, how much sympathy can you muster for a creature whose camouflage seems to consist of passing for a fresh cat turd?

And yes, one thousand posts down.  Who'd a thunk it?

How many Houseboys with big tits and bulging baskets does this make?  More than we could want to count.

In Which mrpeene Catches up With the Rest of TV Land

It's true, I have avoided the siren lure of Downton Abbey.  It premiered right in the middle of the very dark days of R Man's death and, oddly, I was not up to the thrills of Edwardian Yorkshire society.  Of course that couldn't last; how could a man who's read and re-read all of E.F. Benson resist the Dowager Countess?

Over the last couple of nights I have given myself over to a marathon of all 16 episodes, sort of an orgy of tea and turbans.  I love it, just like everyone said, but I think that may have been part of my reluctance to dive in after missing it originally.  Could it really be as archly amusing as reports had it?  Turns out, it is.

Even before watching it, I had a clear image of the whole thing being a sort of mash-up between Upstairs, Downstairs and Gosford Park, especially since Maggie Smith is pretty much the same character in both the Park and the Abbey.  And aren't we all glad of it?  I know she can border on scenery chewing, but also, when she decides to crank up her guns, the old girl can be astonishingly devastating and effective.  It was the upcoming cage match between her and Shirley MacLaine that finally convinced me to get on board the Abbey train.

My only complaint: the luscious, luscious Theo James (who played the luscious, luscious Turkish attache) was killed off less than a whole episode into the madness.  That left the show with some pretty fine eye candy, but nothing of the stellar quality of Theo. 

Theo James was also the only good bit in some dreadful BBC sci-fi gibberish called Bedlam.

Still, come January when it returns, I'll be there.  I already am sort of jonesing for that beautiful red velvet couch in the library.

In Which mrpeenee Hugs a Tree

Before I start whining again, let me clear up an earlier misunderstanding.  Last spring I wrote about the canyon I call home, including this shot of neighborhood eucalyptus,

and dear NormaDesmond commented something along the lines of being surprised since he thought I lived in San Francisco.  SIGH.  As a matter of fact, I live not only in San Francisco, but in the very center of it, geographically.  It just happens that my neighborhood is a huge canyon (the unimaginatively named Glen Canyon,) undeveloped except for the street I live on.  I suspect this represents real estate development shenanigans, but it's ok with me because I get to live like Lisa Douglas from Green Acres: a big city gal surrounded by greenery.

Anyway, I interrupted my demanding schedule of vicodin induced napping to bustle down to a meeting this afternoon at the Glen Canyon Rec Center (a Rec Center!  Complete with muscular young hooligans shooting hoops next door.) that had been called to protest over plans to cut down a bunch of the enormous eucalytus and other trees that fill the canyon.

San Francisco is a tiny peninsula wedged between the Pacific Ocean and the Bay with no rain nine months out of the year.  Before the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it had no trees, just windswept sand dunes and stunted scrub.  By the 1920's, agressive planting of eukes, cypress and pines in the parks and open spaces around town had helped alleviate that to a degree, but San Francisco still has one of the smallest surface areas covered by a tree canopy in America.  We have about 12 percent; not much more than Las Vegas, for christ sake, and far less than Houston's more than 30 per cent.

So it would seem like, with climate change looming, we would cling to each tree, tooth and nail.  Instead, the SF recreation and parks' Natural Areas Program pushed through city legislation to remove thousands of trees here to help restore the landscape to what it was originally.  Hard to argue with that, but I do because I do not think the trade off of all the trees is worth it.

The meeting was exactly what I expected, a roomful of old local hippies with a seasoning of crazy guys.  They're slated to start cutting trees in a couple of weeks and I don't know if this protest has any chance of working.

Again, sigh.

Why do I expect this is not what's in store?

Belated

Oh no. Oh nononono.  Is it to late to go back in time to October 4 in order to wish our old friend Ralph Happy Birthday.   Sources claim he's 70, but that's in Gay Years.  The old dear is charming and funny and I hate to consider what he must think about me standing him up.  My most sincere regrets and here, have a houseboy on me.

Blogging: the Antique of the Internet

There was a time when I used to put a new post every day on mrpeenee, back in the days when I was working.  Or "working."  Or let's just call it back when I had a job, and the job allowed plenty enough free time to keep daily posting viable.   Now that I'm retired and all my time is my own, somehow it seems much more difficult to crank up the old mrpeeneegram and rattle off insights into thrift stores, or decorating, or skin care or any of the other labels I tag my posts with.  And what an odd, odd list that is, with "beefcake" the most frequent, but also including, apparently, one on "bodily functions."  Even I am scared to see what that might be.

I'm not ignoring my poor little blog, I'm just lazy.  I'd feel worse about this, but my perusal of my favorite other bloggers shows me we've all slowed down somewhat, and some have just faded off into the distance.  Farewell Pansy Bastard, adieu Temporary Troublespots.  Let me be quick to add how glad I am to have some of the miscreants drop out and then return (looking at you, Thombeau and Cafe Muscato.)

I understand it's the lure of Facebook and Instagram and Tumblr and other online wastes of time that have been such a cruel blow to blogging and I also get it that blogging is fast becoming a sort of quaint hobby, like train spotting, but again, I'm lazy, and don't feel like moving on.  Maybe I'll change the name of this to News from Dinosaurland.

The mrpeenee blogging crew in action.

Besides, I'm a gassy old queen and the 140 character limit is one I just couldn't deal with.

Just adding to the mrpeenee Beefcake quota.