In Which We Investigate Boston

 

I went to Boston last week for a short vacation.  I know the last time I left San Francisco I swore I would never leave again, but that was a lie, one I tell every time I venture out of the city limits.  Diane von Austinburg was attending a conference there and I had never been, so I decided to meet up with her and see what the old place had to offer. 

It's pretty.

I had sort of an unexamined bias that had pegged Boston as gray and drab.  Totally untrue and I apologize for my misconception.  It's green and lush and filled with the most charming red brick architecture. Also the food was delicious. 

mrpeenee tucks into some really tasty seafood. 

I stayed at a nice, but snooty hotel, the Fairmont.  It was a great deal more pleased with itself than it actually deserved to be.  In my misguided youth, I worked at a lot of hotels in a variety of roles so I have an insider's idea of how things should work. Considering how much of their marketing bleats about their top-notch service, the Fairmont really could have come across with better. I don't want workers to grovel, but I do expect an expensive and very self-satisfied hotel to have waiters who show up at my table on time and for the hostess not to be wearing scuffies.

The decor leaned heavily towards Edwardian Robber Barons who felt drag queens were just a little too restrained. 

I think the high point was a massage I got because I hadn't been able to sleep and I was physically fried. I tracked down a massage joint not too far from the hotel and a) it was excellent and b) I realized when I rolled up that I had stumbled onto the gay neighborhood.  Apparently I have a homing instinct like a queer pigeon.

Oddly enough, this trip exposed me to an army of well-meaning natives who all referred to San Francisco as either "Frisco" or worse, "San Fran" and California as "Cali". If you are tempted to do either, please do not.  I cannot describe the rage that induces in those of us lucky enough to live here.  Maybe if you feel the urge to blurt out "I love San Fran" just bite down really hard on your tongue lest somebody from Cali does it for you. 

Also I paid extra for access to a lounge at the airport on the way home and it turned out to be very reminiscent of the free breakfasts cheap motels offer.  That is not a good thing. 

You know what is a good thing? Naked guys. 

The meaty charms of Brock Magnus

Also, there were way too many toilets involved, which substituted air dryers for decent paper towels.

My flight on JetBlue had seats which TURNED INTO FLAT BEDS. That is absolutely the only way to travel.  The only thing that could have improved it would've been this boy in the bed with me.

pussylicious

 

The superior buttchops of multi-alias Pavel Novotny, aka Jakub Moltin, Jann, Brad, Jan Dvorak, Max Orloff,  etc., etc.

In Which the Good Doctor Takes a Peek

 

Ruh roh

Well thank God that's over. 

Last month I changed medical practices and got a new doctor. To celebrate our tender, fresh relationship, he went on a spree of ordering tests for me.  It all seemed rather one-sided to me; I didn't make him trot off to some waiting room for yet another intrusive procedure. But you know what a good sport I am, so I just went along with all his foolishness. A hearing test, a bone density test, a cardiac stress test, it seems like there is no end to them. He seemed sort of disappointed that I get regular eye exams so he couldn't order one for me. 

Naturally, since I am an old man, one of the screenings was for a colonoscopy, everyone's favorite medical procedure. I've had two of these before and since they had turned up no problems, I was willing to skate along without another one, but the new doctor insisted. In fact it seemed sort of like some kind of fetish, but I refuse to yuck someone's yum, and so this week saw me prepping for my close up yesterday.

I'm not going to linger on the prep details. You have to fast, you have to drink a gallon of this nasty glop, and you have to poop your brains out. It all went from a dribble to a squirt to some kind of natural disaster, but let us draw a veil of silence over any more specifics. More than anything, I was struck by how complicated the directions were this time. I don't remember being so confused about how all the rules and schedules worked before. As I said, you poop your brains out, so all the detailed timeline I had to work with just seemed like overkill.  Poop will out.

But eventually all things pass, right? I overcame the fasting, the pooping, the confusion, and suddenly there I was on a gurney in the procedure room with my skinny old man ass bare to the world and the anesthesiologist getting ready to pump the good stuff in. I made some remark about the very odd music they were playing, like some kind of Temu EDM and that's the last thing I remember. That's the thing about colonoscopies, they always come with a free session of amnesia.  The next thing I knew I was riding in my friend Aaron's car, a brief fragment of memory which was immediately followed by another blank spot.  After that, I suddenly found myself eating pizza at my computer.  How I ordered and paid for the delivery is beyond me; I only hope I was wearing pants when I went down to the lobby to get it. 

I have no idea what they found up in my Grotto of the Unknown, the doctor is supposed to let me know later this week. What I do know is that I am never going through another one because I plan on going to my grave without ever letting someone take a peek inside my butthole again. Never.

Medically necessitated naked guys: 

That is not what I looked like.

I crashed after the pizza and slept for almost 24 hours. 

But the pizza was delicious.

Everybody say hello to Carlos.

In Which Commerce and Coffee Collide

 

Capital One, my credit card company of choice, is always looking out for me, fussing one might say. Recently the old dear sent me an email reminding me that they have a cafe here. Yeah, a cafe. It's a very odd idea to me too, sort of like if AT&T decided to open a laundromat.

The unlikely combination was enough to intrigue me and since I am always up for a latte and muffin combo, I decided to investigate. Also unlikely is its address since the cafe is located in Union Square, the absolute stratosphere of the retail experience. Stores there include Tiffany's, Prada, Cartier, Saks - the creme de la creme, the cremiest, in fact. Unfortunately, the decline of in-person shopping and the death knell that covid represented kicked Union Square very firmly right in the nuts. So I'm sure the Capital One Cafe was very welcome by some landlord somewhere, it just seems like it would make more sense to have it over by the big banks and financial institutions on Montgomery Street.

But I digress. Since I was going to be down in the middle of the Rich Bitch Turf, I decided to get a fancy manicure. It was worth the extra money, attentive without being fussy.  And my cuticles have never looked better. 

Plus the stairway to manicure heaven was absolutely charming. 

But mrpeenee, you demand impertinently, what about the cafe? Yeah yeah yeah, I'm getting there. I took my glossy nails and blasted off for the cafe experience. 

It's an odd building, sort of like the ground floor lobby of a skyscraper if the builders forgot to include the upper stories. I Just assumed they had made a conscious decision to make the architecture match the bizarreness of the cafe's concept. And what about the goods, the creamy espresso drinks and the tender flaky pastries? Here's my unbiased report: 

Oh hell no. 

I was only willing to consider this joint because it seemed like an amusing idea.  Standing in a long slow line was not part of my plan. Plus it was 2:00 on a Wednesday afternoon. What the fuck were all these people doing? Don't they have jobs? So how was the espresso and the muffin? We will never know because I realized that even if I were willing to put up with the line, there was no place to sit available.

All the tables were filled with boring looking people intent on their laptops. Maybe they were all writing screenplays, that would explain how they were able to hang out in a cafe during work hours. I fled.

Fortunately, I remembered that Neiman Marcus, the definitive Rich Bitch department store, was only two blocks away and they have one of my favorite afternoon teas in their fancy schmancy cafe.

It was delicious. It always is. So fuck Capital One and their ludicrous marketing scam. 

Boys I'd like to share a muffin with:

The boys of summer are back.

Everybody loves a good summer festival.

Speaking of the creme de la Creamy

Did I hear you looking for a DILF?

Ready for ravishing.

What adorable nutz.

In Which Our Pride is Gay

 

Here is a an important secret about gay pride: gays, queers, homos, Nancy boys, whatever you want to call the members of the LGBTQIA+ community (and I knocked that whole acronym out without looking it up. I am a genius) grow up with the shame of being a sexual deviant drummed into our ears from a very early age. The earliest insult you could have thrown at you on the playground is to be called a sissy. So we have to learn to overcome.that stigma, or at least try to.  It's hard. And so the concept of."Gay Pride" was developed not so much to show pride in being gay (although, truth be told, I am rather smug about it,) but because pride is the opposite of shame and it's important for the community to understand that.

Anyway, here's this year's pride story:

I was out having a latte and a bit of pastry when my idyll was interrupted by the mewling sound of Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.  Decades ago, when the world was young and new and so was mrpeenee, my friends and I all despised Wham.  We were fierce partisans of the new wave rock movement.  Bands like the b-52s, Depeche Mode, The Human League, Eurythmics, the Buzzcocks, and New Order were what we'd dance the night away to.  It was certainly not the sunny, bubble gummy pop of Wham. 

As part of our growing queer sensibilities, we saved our particular scorn for the lead singer George Michael.  Long before the all-knowing internet gave us access to every hidden gem of a celeb's life, we had absolutely no question that Michael was a big ol' poof.

It was hardly a difficult mystery to crack. We even had very firm opinions about his sexual proclivities. We all took one look is at his butch leather/tight jeans/sneering/sunglasses and pronounced our verdict:  "Bottom." Of course time proved us completely correct. How gratifying.  I have to admit, even as we dismissed him and his music, we were all secretly, or not so secretly, swooning over him like some middle school tween girl reading Tiger Beat magazine.

Because he certainly was pretty. 

And that's what made the whole lurid story of his being busted in a tea room for "public lewdness"  all the more thrilling.  The idea that George Michaels' beautiful pouty lips might be the receiving end of a glory hole was so much more than any of us could have ever hoped for. Also, I just love the phrase "public lewdness." I long dreamed of visiting the restroom where he was arrested just to see the George Michael Memorial Toilet Stall. In poking around his Wikipedia article and the details about his being pinched by the pigs, I discovered that the park where the glory hole is located is in the middle of Beverly Hills and I have actually been there without even knowing I was treading on hallowed ground.  I realize with this audience, I have to rush to assure you all I was not in the restroom for dick, for once.

Anyway, that's our history lesson for Gay Pride. Thank you for coming to my TED talk. As part of this year's celebration, why don't you go stick your dick through a glory hole and imagine that the vacuum seal on the other side is the long gone but always beautiful George Michael.

Guys I wish I could meet through a hole carved in a stall wall:

Visitors to San Francisco for the World Cup games we're hosting have complained about a lack of enthusiasm locally for the games. They should understand we are simply pacing ourselves for gay pride which is this upcoming Sunday. It's our own World Cup of Queerness.

I have run into that ridiculous piece of jewelry known as a Prince Albert by knocking my teeth into it. I was not expecting it, and I did not appreciate it.

I never attend the pride festivities. As I say every year, I'm already gay enough.

I just love boys with skin as white as a freshly peeled potato.

Of course, I also love olive-skinned boys.

Bent.

I always feature this guy whenever I run across him. I think his beefiness is admirable.

Also, here's my salute to the summer solstice.

In Which We Stroll

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