Potty Mouth

In buying my house in New Orleans, I merrily believed the most taxing decisions would involve decorating conundrums like paint colors and such.   I overlooked the fact that in ripping out everything from the kitchens to the electric sockets, someone (that would be me) would have to pick out new ones to replace all that.

I've spent the whole evening looking at bathtubs and then, just for laughs, toilets.  I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone living in this consumers' paradise, choice really isn't a problem.  It's narrowing things down that's the bitch.  All I want is a potty that transports the poo out of the house.  A built-in nightlight is not something I had me heart set on.  Even when I cleared the list of lights and surround sound and "cleansing devices" (oh dear.  Oh very dear.) I wound up with a considerable table of comparisons most of which seem identical.

The search engine on the Lowe's store page asks "What are you looking for?'  I understand they're trying to be helpful, but I was so frustrated by that time, I took it as a more philosophical question and decided if their page wanted to know why I was bothering to look, maybe it was time to go to bed.

What's in a Name?

You know, of course, all the finest porn sites have search functions to allow one to peruse the vast universe of filth more effectively.  Occasionally, I amuse myself (while abusing myself, as Ms Midler would have it) by typing in the most ridiculous titles that come to mind to see, not if, but rather how many of them are actual films.  Those of you familiar with the genre will not be surprised at the incredibly high return of hits I get, no matter how blatantly stupid the name might be.  And let me just add that when I say "Those of you familiar with the genre..." I know I am speaking to all of you guys, so don't try to hide.

It's a game you can play once you're bored with watching how far some brute can stick his forearm up someplace it was never meant to be, so let's go shall we?

Surprisingly, one of my faves, In the Drivers Seat, still is waiting for someone (you maybe) to make it.  On the other hand, I was amazed to find another one, Under the Big Top, was not only produced, but done so quite well by the genius director Kristen Bjorn

and stars the creamy dreamboat, Max Veniziano.

Production notes inform us that this epic is based on the opera Pagliacci, which I, for one, did not expect, but, you know, whatever.

 Also another title I'm quite fond of, Grease Pit, is still unrealized, although a search for that term turns up some real doozies, including, but not limited to Grease Guns (1 and 2)

and the close-but-no-cigar Grease Pit Daddys.  That may be an improvement, I'm not sure.

Plus Low Hanging Fruit is also inexplicably available and, again, searching for that reveals some candidates that have been cranked out that I am not even going sully my blog with by repeating.

Pretty much any common phrase is a likely candidate.  In fact Common Phrase could be a great choice, the story of a randy English teacher and his naughty pupils, although I suppose it requires one to know that "common" not only means vulgar, but once upon a time was used to refer to one who was sexually knowing.  Ooh, ooh, and Sexually Knowing would be another and a shout out to the Who's Quadraphenia to boot. And what would lend itself to this better than To Boot?  Why do I have to do all the thinking around here?

The great thing about smut titles is that not only do they provide the name of the film, but the plot as well, and, frequently, most of the dialogue.  You come up with Daddy's Home and, boom, you're pretty much done with writing.  Or "writing."  And also, again, searching for that gem leads you down a rabbit hole of ouveres you probably don't want to know about, although Daddy Ike Is Collecting the Rent sounds like it might be amusing.

Sorry, I gotta go, I have tons more research to do.

Blah Blah Blogging

I've spent much too long this evening trying to pull together some kind of post about spending the afternoon in the war zone Castro Street has turned into

(construction has ripped up the streets and sidewalks like a gutted fish forcing you to navigate these narrow temporary corridors fenced in on all sides.  It's like being stuck inside Thunderdome.)  Frustration with getting anything more than that parenthetical news bulletin reminds me of one of my favorite Dorothy Parker quotes:

“I hate writing, I love having written.” 

Not so much block as complete desolation, I can't think of anything or how to say it if I do think of it. I start to wonder if English is really my first language.  Would I have better luck in Urdu?

Besides, what is blogging anymore but a quaint and dying hobby much like tatting?  One by one, most of the blogs I used to read that, like mine, were first person accounts of how the blogger got along with their maddening (fill in the blank: spouse, job, addiction, cat, whatev) have all pretty much slipped beneath the waves, leaving me and a few other ranting souls, wearing our tinfoil hats and carrying on.  Having a blog used to be hip, and then it was trite, and now it's sort of musty.

So I decided to redecorate, hence the new background and header photo and other snappy touches.   Also, looking up the Dorothy Parker quote (in order to get it actually correct.  I'm pissy that way.  I also don't use "comprised" when I mean "composed."   Pissy.) I found a quote of hers that was unfamiliar to me, and which I've decided to use as my new cri de coeur:

“Heterosexuality is not normal, it's just common.” 

Who ya gonna call when you need snipers removed from your tastefully decorated crime scene?
SWAT BUSTERS!

Free to a Good Home, One Secret Agent

Sister Mary Legs in the Air, Magda and me at the sketchy remains of my house in New Orleans, largely held together by blue tape.

Had I known what lay ahead of me just a few short hours later, I would have taken the chance to bury Fred in the backyard, dead or not.

The scene: mrpeene's tasteful French Quarter hotel room, 4:30 AM as he bustles about, preparing to depart for San Francisco, becoming increasingly edgy as his calls to Secret Agent Fred go into voicemail, an exercise with Fred which is absolutely pointless.  One might as well write notes, seal them in old bourbon bottles and throw them in the Mississippi.

Finally, short lived relief as Fred calls in..  Short-lived because Fred's contribution is nothing short of gibberish.  I could swear the phrase "argle bargle" is mixed in with the rest.

mrpeenee: "Queen, where are you, I know you are not packed, the car is waiting downstairs and we have to go."

Secret Agent Fred: "aq;fhpovxcmsurg;dsajhfpentmbvhsd;dfhs,mfvhsf,snf.    Argle Bargle."

mrpeenee, his voice raising with his blood pressure: "What?  Bitch what are trying to say, where are you?  This is the time I really am going to kill you and leave your body behind."

Secret Agent Fred: "aq;fhpovxcmsurg;dsajhfpentmbvhsd;dfhs,mfvhsf,snf."  and then, possibly, " I'm right outside the hotel."

mrpeenee, knowing full well better than to take this at face value, goes out on the balcony and sees no one resembling, even slightly, Fred. "Queen, I don't know where the fuck you think you are, but it is not outside the hotel.  You get here NOW or I'm leaving you behind."

Just then, I hear Fred's dulcet tones coming into range and, sure enough, there he comes, shambling up Chartres street, still babbling into his phone.  At that point. I leave off talking into the phone and just start screaming threats and slurs down at him.  Fred is completely oblivious to many things, including the fact I am standing twenty feet from him so he stays on his phone.  Kids these days and their darn gizmos.  Despite the early hour on our very quiet street there are a great many onlookers taking this all in as some kind of colorful New Orleans street theater, like something out of Tennessee Williams.

Secret Agent Fred: "Drop a quarter in it, bitch"  I admit it, a phrase that has certain insouciant charm, but is not helping anything.

I run downstairs and grab Fred, still blabbering into his phone, and drag him past various street vagrants, neighbors, the house porter and the car driver, whom I assure, "We'll be right back."  He seems unimpressed.

Also unimpressed is the hotel night manager who only asks "Are you checking out?"  No, fathead, we're rehearsing for the Golden Girls reunion.

In Fred's room. I order him to take a quick shower.  He refuses and I explain he smells like he's been rolling on the floor of a not very nice bar, a point which seems all too possible.  I finally yank his shirt off, give up on his pants since his belt seems to be welded shut and just give him a once over with a wash cloth and cold water, just to be mean.

As I frantically pack his suitcase and scream at him to get his goddamn clothes on, Fred takes the opportunity to critique my packing style by pulling out everything I'm able to stuff in, announcing "I want to wear that."

I honestly have no idea how I got him out the hotel and into the car, but finally, we are on our way and Fred entertains our long-suffering driver and me with the details of his evening's divertissements.  Choice snippets of my replies to this follow:

"You got punched in the face AGAIN?"

"Why would (our friend ) Levee hit a woman?"

"MUSHROOMS?  When the fuck did you have time to eat mushrooms?  How can you be tripping?  We have to get through security and on the plane in less than an hour."

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh"

The last thing our driver said to me, as he bid us adieu, not doubt glad to be rid of us?  "He is never getting on that plane."  Believe me, this was not news to me.

Amazingly we did, in no short thanks to my constantly hissing "Zip it" to Fred, who wanted to befriend every authority figure we encountered.  I can only assume the goons at the New Orleans airport have all seen plenty worse in their time.

God, they assure us, is a mill who may grind slow, but grinds incredibly fine and Fred got ground as finely as possible since airlines had cancelled our flight and wound us up hanging around the Dallas airport for SIX HOURS during which Fred mostly moaned and whimpered and I clarified that it was exactly what deserved.

When finally, finally, we got home Fred allowed as he thought he would stay home the next time I went to New Orleans.  "Who invited you?" was all I said.

Truly, it's a good thing I love the old thing because I can't tell you how many times drowning him in some mens room toilet seemed like a sensible idea.  It's so nice to be home.

Reporting Live from New Orleans, Part 2

Secret Agent Fred and I are back in New Orleans, living the high life.  Fred is, anyway.  We got here at midnight last night and he has already snagged more pussy than I have in the last three years.  Not that I mind, of course not.  One has to admire both his talent and his dedication.

The nominal reason for the trip is shopping; I have realized that if I wait until the house renovation here is finished and then try to fit out the whole place at once, I'd be just overwhelmed.  Plus I like decorating.  Also, I wanted some shrimp.

It seems our appearance brought with it a tremendous storm.  I grew up with these Gulf Coast downpours and even I am impressed.  And wet.  Fred wanted to know if I planned on going out tonight.  Go out in a drowning downpour to visit tired gay bars I didn't like that much thirty years ago? No thanks.

We stopped by my house to get a peek at the work wrought on it so far.  The roof has been replaced and all the nasty, stinky old plaster and lath walls have been ripped out, great progress.  Less thrilling was the revelation that termites had eaten so much of the studs, the only thing holding the whole place up was inertia and love of Baby Jesus.  The crew is just about finished with replacing all the studs in the house.

That means the roof, the wiring, the sill and all the interior walls of the house I bought three months ago are now gone, so what's left is pretty much the siding and the ground the place sits on.  This just in: some of the siding has to be replaced.    I'm beginning to believe that soon I will only own the concept of a house here.

On the bright side, Sister Mary Legs in the Air is leading a charge into renovation that is nothing short of inspiring.  When he's through with it, the whole place will be snug and solid.  And pretty much rebuilt from scratch.

Oh well, I am a mere vessel, facilitating the spread of Fred's slutty reign over New Orleans.  And I plan on shrimp for lunch tomorrow, so, you know, yay.

Celebrate

Let's celebrate, bitches.The weather here is balmy with partly clothed boys popping up everywhere.  Saki the cat got out, but came back and his new vet's stunning good looks are absurdly like what a soap opera veterinarian would be cast with.   Jason  is still puny, but didn't die.  Yet.  So Celebration.

Not last, Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore sold finally and the check is, as they say, in the mail.  This whole ordeal has been bruising and the only reason we got through it was  Ask the Cool Cookie who has dealt with months of madness, mayhem, mould and contractors.  He is, as his people would say, a mensch.

The very last day as the deal was stumbling through the byzantine process of unloading a house, a mystery line of credit popped up and we had to scramble to deal with it cause unless it was closed, no deal.

Fred had taken to his bed at his apartment, like some frail in a mediocre Tennesse Wiliams' play and was not answering his phone.  I wound up begging a friend of ours, Rascal, who has a key to Tim's building and lives nearby, to go over a roust the little miscreant and urge him to call the realtor ASAP. It's possible I also might have dropped a hint that kicking Fred could be a swell idea, but I don't know how all that went over.

I do know the incredibly patient realtor emailed this afternoon to confirm the check is on its way.

Also, chez peenee's back yard is winding up for what looks like a stunning late spring.

So celebrate.  Now is the time, this is place.

In Which a Small Cat has a Big Time

I was returning from taking the trash out and in the tiny, tiny window of opportunity when the house door and the garage door are both open, Saki, the adorable and evil, but mostly evil, cat made a break for it.

I gave chase (always such a good idea) but tripped and fell, scratching both palms and banging up my knee.  By the time I had righted my creaking old self, he had disappeared.

I wandered up and down our tasteful and quiet street, making the the little "tch tch" noise that is the only thing he ever pays attention to, but sort of hopelessly.  Our neighborhood has big stretches of wild, open canyon and I figured he was off paying the coyotes a visit, and, really, what are the chances of finding a cat in the dark?

One of my neighbors popped up, a sweet lady who, I'm sure, is not responsible for her Crazy Hair, and offered to help.  She asked what "her" name was, I told her "He probably thinks it's 'Get Off the Table' cause that's what he hears the most."  She didn't seem to get it, so I relented and explained it was really Saki, which she allowed was a cool name.

We shared lost cat stories and she looked around for a while in the most inept manner possible until I finally thanked her and sent her on her way.  I leaned against the garage door, mentally composing flyers:

LOST CAT

No collar

No brains

Answers to absolutely nothing.

If found, approach with caution.

I was already comforting myself with the realization that at least I wouldn't have to worry about finding to someone to take care of him while I was in New Orleans when he scurried back in, his tail huge, as big around as it can get, so it would seem he had run into some adventures.

Serves him right.  I want it clearly understood I did NOT greet him with baby talk and chin scratches.  Maybe a little.