In Which We Stroll

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In Which Our Grade is Retroed

The idiotic superstition that the planet Mercury, being in something called retrograde which results in all kinds of misfortune on earth, is just an optical illusion where it appears to move backwards in the sky. I usually have no patience for bullshit of this particular flavor, but on days like this, I am willing to consider it.  After all, I don't understand how a planet can look like it's running around backwards just because, you know, science any more than I understand how people can actually believe that it makes their life fuck up, so what the hell.

But mrpeenee, what brings the collision of superstition and science up today? Obviously, it's the fact that Mercury is fucking with me. Again.

Things started out apparently calmly enough.  I had errands, an appointment with my new doctor, and I wanted coffee, so I had to leave the apartment. And that's when all hell broke loose.  Isn't it always? My cat Toby insists on bolting out of the door whenever I'm trying to leave. He thinks of it as running away from home, I think of it as him being a dickhead. He trots down the hall and then lays down and demands that I come pick him up and carry him back. It's adorable except it's also annoying as the dickens. I obediently went down and was toting him back when a construction worker exited one of the apartments near me. Toby took the opportunity to FREAK THE FUCK OUT. Obviously it was time to flee for his life and his solution was to dig his claws into my hand as he tried to jump down. I screamed like an enthusiastic little girl and dropped Toby. So I was shrieking and Toby was flailing, and the construction guy was doing both. If I had bled any more, I would have needed a transfusion.

My totally cool Day of the Dead Band-Aid. It makes being wounded almost worth it.

I limped off to get coffee with my bandaged hand as a kind of trophy to how I suffer, silently, like a martyr. Then I had to go get some document scanned to send to my tax guy. UPS has a store down the street from me which offers scanning, easy breezy peazy, right? Except the fat guy in line in front of me could not figure out how to fill in a mailing label and wound up taking so long I had to abandon ship in order to make my doctor appointment on time. When I left, he was complaining about why they used the word "recipient" on the label.

So my new doctor belongs to One Medical, part of Amazon's drive to control every aspect of modern life. I was just there for a check up and to line up a new main provider. Instead, the receptionist claimed they had sent me an email that she was out on medical leave and I would need another doctor. Because I have a new resolution not to flip out unnecessarily, even though that is my one true talent, I did not explain that "I sent you an email" is such a feeble excuse, I refuse to acknowledge it any longer. I have been retired for 15 years and even I stopped using it years before I escaped work. I just made a new appointment for a couple of weeks from now. We'll see how many doctors I go through in that time.

But then Mercury seemed to get his head out of its ass. I went to a different place to scan my documents and the cutest boy in the world, friendly and sweet, helped me. He obviously felt sorry for my feeble old ass and very politely pretended to ignore my lascivious ogling. His hair was like thick silk. I just wanted him to lay his head on my lap and let me pet it for a while. Also, I got an excellent iced mocha across the street from there in a place I have been ignoring for years because they take too long to make coffee. How was I to know it was worth it?

Finally I took a robo taxi, one of San Francisco's driverless cabs, home. Here's a pro tip for when these become common in your future life: because there is no driver, if you're having a bad day and you get in one, you can just scream as much as you like. Take my word for it..

Boys who could make me scream:

Peekaboo.

Runnin' around.

Next to godliness, baby.

Cowboy beef.

My cat Toby is lying next to me with his butt encroaching on the keyboard and his tail flailing at me.

My typing is never great, but Toby is making it even worse than usual.

Toby wins. I'm signing off.

In Which We Are Back Again

Once again, I have successfully escaped from Texas. I suppose it's a good idea both to stay in practice and to remind myself I still can do it. There is so much about the old place that just makes me crazy with irritation but also stirs a reluctant fondness at the same time. I suppose that can be true of every place, I'm just most familiar with the Texas flavor. 

I went to Houston to visit my brother Ed who has been living with Parkinson's disease for several years.  The last few months have been very difficult for him; it's common for Parkinson's sufferers to develop psychosis and Ed had a rough patch of it  This spring he has struggled with hallucinations and memory gaps. It was hard seeing him like this, he would have moments when it would be obvious he would sort of lose traction mentally in the middle of a conversation.  I'm glad I went to see him, I'm just sorry it was such a sad visit.

In related travel news, I had the best guacamole I've ever had while I was hanging out with Diane in Austin. Making it even better was the fact that we got it at a new restaurant called Tzintzantzun.  My hand to god.

One of the many best things about San Francisco is that no matter where you travel, you get to come back here when you return. I like Texas and I love California, the problem is air travel between them.  Yuck.  We sat in a fully loaded plane at the gate for more than an hour waiting for the fog in San Francisco to lift.  It's traditional when that happens to get home and tell your friends about it and they ask "What fog? It's been sunny all day here." Also, United lost my bag, fortunately they found it several hours later and brought it to me.  Thank you United, I would have hated to have lost all those dirty clothes. 

I am never leaving San Francisco again. 

Boys for whom I would leave San Francisco:

Every time I've run across this picture of this boy and his stunning buttcheeks, I'd save it to share with you, naughty pusses.

This young man looked suspiciously familiar, have I featured him in the Nekkid Guys segment recently? Do you care? Also turns out his name is Marcus Bailette, in case you were wondering.

More superior butt shots.

Selfie, daddy edition.

There is a present for you down in the basement.

Love a lout.

In Which We Leave Town

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In Which We Go to the Movies

 I finally got around watching Project Hail Mary in an actual theater.  Friends had told me that it was well worth the trip to see it there and to watch it in IMAX, but I screwed around too long and it had been downgraded to the regular screens. 

Years ago I was an enthusiastic moviegoer, but now the allure of lying in my own bed with the cat and with my laptop on my stomach watching whatever Netflix dishes out is just too much to deny.  The Barbie movie in the summer of 2023 was the last time I set foot in an actual cinema, but Project Hail Mary sounded interesting and I like Ryan Gosling (he does a good job considering most of the role is a solo act,) so I figured what the hell. I put on my pants and went to the movies. 

The theater is in what used to be a very nice shopping mall attached to our convention center, but all the retail has surrendered and closed, leaving only the cinema and a half empty food court. It was like dropping by Miss Havisham's for tea.  But the theater was very clean with very comfy chairs that reclined.  I knew from bitter experience that seats like that are not meant for men as tall as me, but I didn't really mind and just let my feet hang off the end of the foot rest.  

Better writers than I have already discussed how the experience of movie watching has declined so sadly.  Let me just agree with what they've already said.  The experience included 20 minutes of commercials which I ignored by playing crosswords on my phone, followed by eight trailers for upcoming movies.  And what were the movies? Six sequels, one remake, and one (ONE) original new movie.  Staying at home with my cat in the bed never seemed so appealing. 

The movie itself was fine, not the best sci-fi I've seen but also not the worst.  Lots of great big, very loud action sequences which frequently were so confusingly shot it was not clear what was going on or where it was located. My main criticism is that no movie needs to be 2 and a half hours long. Two and a half hours is a miniseries. Give my fucking bladder a break. 

Recently I saw a story about some big shot from Sony rebuking theater owners at their annual meeting for a number of problems they had created for themselves and that were driving down attendance.  He mentioned the commercials as a particular problem and I certainly agree.  I do not appreciate spending $27 just be forced to watch an ad for eczema cream.  Fuck. Off. But the Sony guy represents a problem equally as bad.  Studios think milking the same old intellectual property for endless sequels and remakes is a safe bet.  They're wrong. It's going to take more than yet another Spider-Man movie to get me to put my pants on again and struggle down to the cinema. 

I think I'll just stay home with these guys instead: 

Ink stained.

He needs glasses to see to the end of his dick.

I'm trying to focus on his beautiful musculature, but I'm distracted by what he's holding. What is that?

Once again, I ask, "Is that real?" And once again, I realize, I don't care.

In the weeds never looked so good.

In Which We Are Identified

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