In Which We Are Painted

 

Here is some context to help this little tale of woe make more sense: I stay up all night reading and enthralled by YouTube videos and otherwise wasting my time and then go to bed about 6:00 a.m., just when the rosy fingered dawn is peeping over the horizon. This is not some occasional imprudent affectation, it is my regular schedule. I will not be taking questions at this time. 

So anyway, earlier this week I was jostled sort of awake by the racket my cat Toby was making showing his scratching mat who was boss. He was banging around like a goddamn percussion section, even more so than usual. It went on for a while until I came close enough to something like consciousness that I could realize Toby was next to me taking up more than half the bed as usual. What got my attention was the noise was continuing. Toby and I are the only authorized attendees allowed here in my bedroom so if we weren't making the din, who the hell was? 

There is nothing like a quick jolt of panic to finish waking you up, and that's what helped me to realize it was the guys painting the outside of my building who were chatting and yucking it up in Spanish while on one of those very scary looking platforms suspended from the top of our building and banging against the wall. 

the scene of the crime.

The property management people had warned us that the painters would be here, but I had underestimated just how disruptive they would be. Plus, as you can see in the picture below, my particular unit is at the very end of the building in the part that is sheathed in tastefully oxidized panels  and not subject to painting. 

I naively took that to mean I wouldn't have to deal with any sleep depriving foolishness, but I had overlooked that there is one tiny bit of my apartment where one of my bedroom windows sits and that is just past the end of the metal plates. That tiny bit had had to be painted. Thus the early morning aerial racket directly outside my boudoir.  

It's really sort of impressive how very casual the boys out there are considering they are dangling over the sidewalk on some flimsy looking scaffolding that's just hanging off the side of the building. I spent way too long trying to come up with the name or term for this dangling scaffold, but it turns out "aerial window washing equipment system" is the closest I could come up with, although "death trap" seems like it would be equally accurate. Let this video demonstrate: 

Dude, you are one snapped cable away from becoming a workplace tragedy. Plus you're making way too much noise, could you keep it down? 

Guys I wouldn't mind waking up for: 

If you gave a monkey a phone, it would have the same perplexed look on its little face, but it wouldn't be as cute.

Did you know too many cashews can result in the poops? It is a sad, sad truth.

I cannot be trusted with a bag of cashews, I have to decant them into a sensible serving size in a bowl or i will continue to shovel them into my gob until they come out the other end as fast as they go in.

My editing this post is considerably hindered by Toby the cat demanding brushes.

Poor thing cannot fit his massive buttchops into the tub.

I have no idea what may be going on here.

I just remembered I had planned to make this week's nekkid guys all B&W, but I slipped up.

Oops.

In Which We Suffer Yet Another Birthday

 

There are times when I sit down to write my latest hilarious blog and I discover I have absolutely no idea about what to write. I turn to the mrpeenee Automatic Post Topic generator and all I get is static.  Goddamit.  Surely I can come up with something to complain about, but no, I get no traction.  And then I remember, fuck this. I cannot get fired, I am my own boss, I am the master of my fate.

But while sulking about my absolute lack of ideas, and how my blog is an utter task master, and how I really want to drag it behind the barn and shoot the mother fucker, I remembered that I had not celebrated mrpeenee's anniversary this year.  My blog's actual birthday is July 24, 2007 anno domini and every single year I am amazed to have passed yet another milestone (see "drag it behind the barn and shoot it.")

Nineteen years is an impressive record for someone with as little attention span as I have. When I started down this ridiculous path, I certainly had no idea I would stick around this long. My blog has outlived my husband, several cats, David Bowie, and frequently my will to write. If it weren't for the nekkid guys segment of each post I don't know how I would go on. 

Mike Betts, still my favorite nekkid guy.

Every year as part of my anniversary salute, I pause to remember fellow bloggers who started out about the same time as me.  There used to be a whole pack of us, but as blogging turned into a quaint novelty, almost all of them have dropped off. Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter, the Mistress from Mistress Borghese, and Inexplicable Device from Inexplicable Device, are the few, the happy few still sticking it out. Tough old birds all and I lift a glass to salute them. Some who didn't make it this far are actually no longer on this side of the grass (LX, Kabuki Zero) and others simply wandered off out of this land of make-believe (Jason, Mean Dirty Pirate, the Cool Cookie, Cafe Muscato, and the much missed Fabulon). Mitten Drinnen, aka Norma Desmond remains as a frequent commenter and Mistress Infomaniac is a ghostly, ghastly specter who only rises from her grave once a year on her blogiversary. Whether you're still here or not, I remember you all with great fondness.

So anyway here's to mrpeenee, the finest blog on this page.  Long may I wave.

And now back to our regularly scheduled nekkid guys:

I occasionally run across porn sites that focus on tickling. The whole idea never fails to strike me as incredibly unlikely. Here we have Italian side o' beef, Marco Pinotti getting the treatment.

I realize I don't give enough attention to the species known as daddies, so here is Alex Tikas.

Whachoo looking at?

 

He's got a package for you.

Surf's up

The warm weather has meant the action below my window on the sidewalk, always lively, has been particularly raucous, including some guy on Wednesday night about 11 o'clock playing the bagpipes.

He was pretty good, you know, for bagpipes, but the whole thing was so unlikely, I was very tempted to put on my pants and go downstairs and ask him "what the fuck?"

But a lifetime living in the big city reminded me to mind my own business.

I want to fuck this guy so bad it's sort of annoying.

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.