Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! trailer

Truly, an incredible evening's entertainment.

The blonde muscleman was called Vegetable. "He's got a big motor to feed."

And sandbox jousting. Woo hoo.

Beefcake For Rent

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Glass Night

We went to see Philip Glass perform last night and, oh, my little chickens, it was wonderful. Everything I love about his music with none of the irritating droning monotony that can sometimes slip in. It was just him on piano, a great, great cellist named Wendy Sutter and quirky percussionist named Joe. His music is so hypnotic and fluid. I mentioned earlier, my favorite soundtrack is the one he did for The Hours and he played four pieces from his Metamorphoses which is what the soundtrack was based on. Dazzling.

The Mrpeenee Full Employment Programme

So, what, exactly is my job? I'm not asking you, I'm asking myself, although I'm sure you have some charming , charming ideas about my employment.

My job (which I love, by the way) comprises three main parts (not is comprised of)

I'm the media person for our office. I talk to the press, write press releases, create and edit marketing pieces for our programs. In general, the fast paced life of a Brenda Starr, Girl Reporter.

I organize the training program of classes for local entrepreneurs. I line up the presenters, schedule the seminars, handle the marketing for about 500 classes a year. It's like being the producer of lots of shows, but without theme songs.

I handle "marketing and outreach" for our office. Those of you involved in the world of schmooze will recognize that term of art; for those of you who have blessedly missed it, it means going to parties and making small talk about what my agency does. Frighteningly, I am quite good at it. Before I wound up in this job, I had no idea that was my real talent. I'm still not sure that's a good thing.

One of our resource partners had their big gala last night and I was hip deep in it. Business cards flying, air kisses, "darling, darling, darling...." I'm always able to refer small businesses I chat up to help they need; I have just enough gossip to entertain other people in the economic development field; I am charming without being gooey; I can, in short "work a room."

I would weep, but I have no tears. Besides, I like it better than being a waiter.

Fruit of the Vine

A show opening in mid-Ocotber at the LGBTQQTI ABDCEFG Center here.

Sort of a plump little faun. http://www.sfcenter.org/event/box_series/box_series.htm

A Night at the Symphony, Take One

R Man and I and our good friend Anne went to the symphony last night, the first performance of our series for this season. They played Mozart and Mahler, either because they wanted to offer a thoughtful contrast between two vibrantly different composers or because they're working their way through the alphabet. Who knows.

R Man and I both love Mozart, but this was a terribly dull piece, plus the San Francisco Symphony always plays with a sweet rich sound and I like a more brisk, butch little Mozart. Mahler bores us both and this was very Mahlery, meandering along, never reaching a conclusion and sounding much too influenced by Wagner. It was based on 12th century Chinese poetry and had some lovely exotic parts, but all in all, it was Mahler. Tragically, the SF Symphony specializes in him, so this might be a longish season.

Also adding to my season long concerns, the woman in front of us seems to be one of those hags who loves to glare at people at performances in order to emphasize how sensitive she is. When we were getting settled in our seats, I picked up the programme and, pretending to be outraged, said to Anne "I thought this was Blue Man Group. I've been cheated." Haglady immediately turned to give me a three-quarter Evil Eye. I have to admit, it was very well done, I commend an artist when I encounter one. Just enough of a turn in her seat to let me know she was on to me, just enough of a stiffening of her posture to imply her disdain, not quite meeting our eyes, but telegraphing her distaste never the less. "Just a joke," I said, which brought on another round of turning, stiffening, and telegraphing as if to say she was too much of a lady to know what I was talking about. Good thing I hadn't addressed her as "honey" as I so often do.

She also got in a good glare at some poor schmoe who succumbed to a coughing fit towards the long delayed end of the Mahler. Maybe he was snoring, maybe he was just hatching an excuse to flee, I don't know. Anyway, he very thoughtfully got up and left. She glared. Shortly after that, his wife left to join him, understandably, and the Glaring One was able to unleash her full arsenal. She turned around, aimed at the departing woman's back and RAISED HER EYEBROW.

Oh, the bitch is in for it now. I shall remember that eyebrow and she will regret it. I don't approve of people who chat in concerts, but I also don't think you have to sit there in unbroken reverential stillness. Making such a huge deal out of the normal trespasses of being an audience member pisses me off. Should this stiffed out bitch continue to do so, I will have no choice but to put spit wads in the back of her fussy little page boy hairdo.

She will have brought it on herself.

An Interior Life

Bloggers around the world are breaking out our color swatches. The Other Andrew reveals his unsated longing for a new sofa as he starts his redecorating; thombeau, over at Fabulon, replies that he is jettisoning all his earthly possession in order to seek out greener pastures; and little me, I’m deep within the decorating vortex myself.

In my earlier post ( here ya go ) I swore off my Bollywood meets Malibu Barbie inspired bedroom in favor of a more sophisticated, subdued palette of old gold and taupe. For curtains, I had a bolt of beautiful tapestry-like cloth in those very colors I bought years ago at some damn auction. The aptly named Mrs. Draper, who made R Man’s curtains for us, agreed to whip up some for me that would cover an entire wall of the room. R Man was suitably supportive and after handing off the bolt to Mrs. Draper, we hit the paint store to pick wall colors.

My dreams of a sassy turquoise to offset the muted tones of the fabric shriveled up and died almost as soon as we go to the paint chips. No matter how gorgeous on their own, all the turquoises just looked grotesque up against the swatch. I struggled, oh, how I fought it, but in the end, obviously, the only thing that worked with the studied sophistication of the would-be curtains was TAUPE. Here’s their wedding picture, chip and swatch:
I can appreciate quiet good taste in the abstract, but after a night of fantasizing about my future life in a replica of Nancy Regan’s boudoir, I rebelled, got on the phone to Mrs. Draper to call it off, dumped the taupe idea, and went back out looking for dark, bright blue. Indigo, cobalt, sapphire, luscious deep colors that called to my inner drag queen.

The wonderful world of Britex Fabrics came through not in their decorating department, but with a table of junk obviously meant for the Asian trannie market. If you ever feel the need to run up some dragon lady dress, this is the place. But you can’t have the embroidered midnight blue on blue, because me and my curtains beat you to it.

So here’s the newest plan (and since we have sunk most of the budget into it, this one had better be the final.) Darkest blue Chinese brocade curtains, periwinkle walls to pick up the highlights in the silk, a rough sisal floor to contrast, my fabulous new black tansu bed and a carved teak stool. Wait till you see, bitches, it’s going to be dazzling.

The San Francisco Wildlife Report

We live in Glen Canyon, a canyon that's almost exactly in the center of San Francisco, but because it's a big city park, has almost no development in it, aside from our street and one other way uphill from us. Consequently, we are surrounded by a subtantial amount of green open space, certainly compared to the rest of densely urban San Francisco. We live with hawks and skunks and possums, lots of feral cats

and now, coyotes.

This one, for instance in our neighbor's backyard this morning eating apples that had fallen from his tree. I took this picture from the window next to where I'm writing this.

I Have No Shame

I am willing to admit to my big ol'crush on LORENZO LAMAS.

OK, maybe I'm a little ashamed

Out on the Town

My new fave restaurant? Mission Beach Cafe, which the dear, dear Diane von Austin-berg astutely points out is neither in the Mission nor on the Beach. What the hell. Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous baked goods, pretty design, and sweet waiters.

On the way there, R Man stopped to mail our bills, but he wanted to taste them first.

Typical beautiful San Francisco Victorian architecture and typical beautiful San Francisco fog.

Tea for him, latte for me

A Bed of One's Own

Two years ago, while I was wandering around the semi-fabulous design district of Los Angeles I got sucked into a mattress store that raised the earnest pretentiousness of Scandinavian design to breathtaking heights. The product was not a bed, it was a"sleep system" with a mattress that cured all ills and increased sexual stamina; the slats that held it were made from special birch wood, possibly hand polished by blind nuns who had taken vows of furniture crafting. I seem to remember the blessing of Danish gnomes was implied.

Of course, I bought it. And you know what? The mattress and the slats turned out to actually be great, just the right combination of firmness and support, like an ideal boyfriend. The bed frame they fit in, not so much. In fact it was some crappy step down from Ikea. I could have down better with tinkertoys and spit.

Over the restless year I sort of slept in it, the legs kept breaking off, always at 3:00 AM, hurling me to the floor from a sound sleep and forcing me to fix the fucker before I could gingerly get back in bed and lie there cursing the manufacturer, AXEL BLOOM, and his doubtless miniature gonads.

I finally just removed the legs and put the slat form and mattress on the floor, where I've slept for the last year. It solved the falling to the ground problem and made my room look bigger, but aside from that, it sucked.

So as part of Operation New Bedroom for Mrpeenee, I wanted a new frame to hold the lovely, dense, firm, Goldilocks-just-right mattress. I should explain, it's an extra long twin. I'm too tall for regular beds and I don't like big expanses of queenbed real estate stretching around me, so xlongtwin it is.

Since it's built very much like a futon, I hit the local futon stores, naively thinking they could come across with the goods. It turns out futon stores are universally suspicious of anyone outside the full/queen/king spectrum. Salesmen who came up to the middle of my chest would demand to know why I wanted an extra long twin bed. What was wrong with me? Some places simply claimed no such thing existed and then refused to make eye contact with me.

Finally, Murasaki Furniture on Pine Street (yay for Murasaki, my heroes) said yeah sure no problem. You want a black extra long twin? We'll deliver it Saturday, sign here.

I slept on it last night. I love it, it fits me and my mattress, it's sturdy and blessedly does not fall apart. What more can you ask from your bed? Well, I know, Brazilian body builders aside, what more can you ask?

The B-52's Give Me Back My Man Live Rock in Rio 1985

My favorite song of my favorite band. Yes, Cindy sounds like crap, but don't both she and Kate look dazzling.

Thanks to http://thombeau.blogspot.com/ for bringing up the b 52s tonight.

What is All that Wet Stuff? It's Rain, Dear.

I had never known until I moved here that San Francisco only has two seasons: wet and dry. Since the temperature here only works its way through about a 15 degree range, it's easy to get confused about time, or, at least, it is for me and my vagueness. Whereas in other places you might have to stop and think "Is this Tuesday or Thursday?" in SF, sometimes I have to really bend my thought towards "Is this June or November?" The weather is not giving up any clues. If it wasn't for Macy's putting up Christmas decorations, I would never know the season.

Ocotber through March, it rains. April through September, no rain. By that I mean NO RAIN. Not a little or sporadically or not enough to count; it never rains during those months. This evening we had our first rain of the wet. I'm always delighted with the novelty of these early, timid showers. Usually, I'm over it by about February (if I notice in the paper that that's what month it is) but until then, how sweet.

I was so excited, I went out and took a picture of the rain on our patio. That may seem excessive, but chances are, this three minute long drizzle will be news in the paper tomorrow.

I do love San Francisco.

Our friend superagentfred is a genius artist and you should go look at his stuff.

Glass

We're going to see Philip Glass perform next week, yay. I know in this blog stuffed full of cover versions of "I Will Survive," my passion for Glass may not be readily evident, but I find him ethereal and hypnotic, right up to the point where I find him irritating and crazy-making. But then, Gloria Gaynor has the same effect on me. Until I reach that point, though, I love him. My favorite soundtrack ever is the one he wrote and played for The Hours.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to it very much. The show is in Herbst, which is a lovely small theater and it's just Glass and a cellist performing. What's not to love?

Beefcake, Version Whatever

We know being enamoured of beautiful, glossy young men is shallow.

We just don't care.

Saturday in the Park without George

People from all over the world spend lavish amounts of their hard earned cash to come visit San Francisco and I wake up here every day. It's a wonderful life. An early life on the Gulf Coast taught me to treasure an environment where the temperature stays cool all the time. It's like living with outdoors air conditioning. And lots of cute poofter boys. Don't forget the cute poofter boys.

To show my appreciation, I decided to make a photo record of a typical fabulous Saturday. I packed up the camera, but kept forgetting to shoot. Still, here's:

Mrpeenee's Saturday Adventure

We went to breakfast at Chow down in the Castro because that's what we do pretty much every Saturday. We love it. I think urbanstreetpirate is concerned about our lack of variety, but then he's as willing to tuck into the banana cream pie there as I am.

R Man and I both get our haircuts form the same genius bitchy artist at Joe's Barbershop, on 19th Street, across from Spike's cafe. Jeff's prickly exterior hides his prickly interior, but we adore him and he's a great hair cutter.

The fabulous, fabulous Castro Street, locus of the dreams of queer boys all around the world was looking particularly tatty because the merchant association had arranged a sidewalk sale and everyone on the street had dragged out all the crap they couldn't otherwise move. At Cliff's Hardware, I snagged a giant glazed pot for the camellia on our patio. The camellia and I are both thrilled.

I finished up with a sweep through the thrift stores in the Mission. I recommend Community Thrift for all your stuffed rabbit shopping needs.

And should you be in the market for a boxed LP set of the wit and wisdom of Walter Cronkite, hotfoot it on over to Thrift Town on Mission at 17th.

Buzzcocks - Ever Fallen In Love?

I know I posted this song before, but this is better because

a) Pete is just so damned cute

b) they're not lipsynching

c) he's out of tune almost much as he is in tune, charmingly.

d) I think he may be wearing a patchwork shirt

e) he's so goddam cute.

Pearls of Wisdom

How was I to know, when I was six years old and saw this for the first time, how insightful this was, and is.

Amy Sedaris on The Martha Stewart Show

I was hoping that Amy would physically attack Martha, but either they edited it out or Martha was just too big for her. Plus Ms Stewart probably learned to pack a shiv when she was in the slammer.

Sistah Parish is in the House

Of course we're decorating: we're gay men, we own our house, can renovating ever be far off? My bedroom and bathroom are the current projects, and all I have to say is it's about damn time. We painted every thing when we moved in ten years ago and fabulosity only lasts so long. The bathroom especially needs to be rescued from sadness. It's huge, 15 feet long with an 8 foot long vanity, complete with a mirrored wall above it. Lighting is one of those glamour strips with little round bulbs every few inches. The whole thing was probably the last word in style when Jimmy Carter was president and it still looks like Jan Brady might pop in at any minute to freshen up her do. Which is why it must die.

My plans started with my fascination with Bollywood. Naturally, I picked a pink and orange theme for my boudoir, more specifically, hot pink and tangerine. I though it would be kicky. To balance that, I thought I would go with severe gray for the bath, concrete colored tiles for the floor, dark slate surrounding the tub shower, and charcoal gray on the walls. The whole thing was to be accented with gilt to counteract the severity of it all. You know, subdued, masculine, brutal. With a rococo mirror.

Yesterday (it was a Monday, maybe you remember?) I staggered from bed, walked into the bath and suddenly understood that what I had envisioned was the Huntsville State Men's Penitentiary. Maybe a dark gray room is not the very thing to get you up and going on a foggy, cold San Francisco morning.

So I completely discarded that idea (except the rococo mirror, because, you know, I need it.) Obviously the pink needed to be in the bathroom. If you're going to be Barbie, do so in a room with mirrors and grooming products, I say. Black and white tiles, white glass mosaic tiles around the shower, bright, bright, bright. And that damn rococo mirror.

My bedroom? Embracing my schizophrenia, I've moved onto verdigris and taupe, turquoise and old gold. From a Bollywood whorehouse to Versailles. It's easy, my one real strength in decorating is arbitrary decisions.

That's why I'm baffled when decorating shows natter on about "What's your style?" as if people only have one method of expressing themselves open to them. What they really mean is "Which page in the Pottery Barn catalogue do you want?" I like everything. Mid-century Judy Jetson modernity? Love it. Crunchy arts and crafts hand woven earnestness? Bring it. Barbara Pym inspired chintzy English rose country? Okey dokey. As long as it's not that stupid Tuscan. If I never see a fake grape vine draped over a curtain rod again, it'll be too soon.

When R Man first met me, he accused me of decorating in a style he described as "Pee Wee Herman's Playhouse." Who knows, it could come back again. It all depends what's at the thrift store.

Can't Stop The Music (trailer)

And people (mostly the gays) wonder what happened to the musical as a cinema form. Let this be your answer. Also, could Bruce Jenner look any more queer? The queen twirling flaming batons is butcher.

Coach Says Time Out

I went to the baths in Berkeley last night and had a lovely time, thanks. Gaggles of humpy, short men (a sexual weakness of mine) who seemed very glad to see me, oh boy. Short men have such beautiful round muscles and they just seem to fit better. Years and years of experience have proven to me there is a world of men out there who get all heated up by the phenotype I fall in, which can only be described as lanky, and certainly, I'm grateful for them. I like being tall, but tall, skinny men leave me cold.

My only cavil about this tub trip was the one who adressed me as "Coach," as in "Fuck my pussy, coach." This is the third or fourth time over these many years of sexing it up with the boys that someone has called me that and it always baffles me. I should mention I bear a strong resemblance to Miss Jane on the Beverly Hillbillies, even naked. Maybe especially naked. So having them peg me as "coach" just makes me wonder what wierd little movie they have running in their head. The only coaching I could see me doing would be of a mediocre girl's volleyball team and if that's what they're fantasizing about while I'm busy plugging them, well, I call that ungrateful.

I also say ewww. A naked Nancy Kulp spiking a return back over the net. Ewww.

French Beefcake

Mr. February will see you now.

At low points during the day,

I remember I am older than

Norma Desmond was in Sunset Boulevard.

sigh.

funkytown

I decided I wanted to change the ringtone on my cell phone to the hook from Funkytown because I was concerned that I was just not annoying enough when in an elevator. While trying to track this down (and getting increasingly annoyed that third graders in South Dakota could do this easier than I can) lo, I discovered the Official Funkytown website. Who knew? Why am I surprised? Visit and discover the world of wonder that is Funkytown. http://www.funkytown.com/

If I ever achieve my dream of opening a thrift store, I intend to call it Funkytown.

Antipodes Beefcake

Buffed up muscle pussy courtesy of MTV Australia Video Music Awards. As usual, I'm impressed because Australia just seems to be able to effortlessly produce such high quality eye candy, while all Hollywood can come up with is Brittney Spears doing her Little Edie imitation. Of course, this also comes with the annoying Fergie, but that's just the price you pay.

Wardrobe Malfunction

I am wearing today the outfit I always wear. A t-shirt, jeans with no embarrassingly obvious stains and converse tennis shoes. I realize this is the same fashion choice I have been making pretty much daily since I stopped wearing diapers. (Please, no cracks from the peanut gallery about when that was. You know perfectly well what I mean. Bitches.) I’m just glad I belong to a generation and a city where professional, responsible adults can get away with looking like their job description includes the phrase “Delivers newspapers in timely fashion.” Occasionally, and under duress, I have to dress like a real grownup. A beautiful black DKNY suit, a heavily laundered white shirt, and one of the many dazzling ties R Man buys me each Christmas and I look like a new man. It’s no more authentic than when I did drag for Southern Decadence in New Orleans by slipping into a black lace Merry Widow and t-strap pumps, it just lets me fit in better with the bankers from Wells Fargo. Of course, some of them would be very impressed with a sassy little Merry Widow, and jealous, to boot, but that's another story.

Martha Graham Cracker performs Life on Mars by David Bowie

Oh. My.

My Telenovella Career

In primitive television times, before Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street, local tv stations had their own kiddy shoes to fill in the gap between soap operas and the news when grubby children descended from school and needed to be distracted with something so mommy could focus on her drinking. In Houston, where I grew up, the answer was Kitirik (her name came from the call letters of the station, KTRK, with I’s stuck in the middle. Who knows why? It was the 60’s.) She was suppose to look like a black cat as some vague-ass reference to their location on unlucky channel 13, so she wore sort of a hood with kitty ears and dressed in a black leotard, fishnets and heels. Of course. Doesn’t everyone want their children entertained by a dominatrix pole dancer?

I watched everyday, entranced. There were cartoons and cheesy local commercials, but the best was kids who got to appear on the show and be interviewed on their birthday. The high point of my young life were the two times I got to be a part of the birthday scrum on Kitirik. The first time I was so little. I don’t even remember it, something about being on a carousel, but by the second time around, when I was 6, I was much more sophisticated and still cherish the memory.

By that time, the set had changed and she lived in a tee house (why?) and the birthday brats were interviewed seated in a big nest (again, why? A cat and a nest, creepy and nonsensical. The director must have been on drugs and drinking. Heavily. If your career had wound up here, wouldn’t you?) Kitirik came around and asked us some bogus questions to give us each camera time. “How old are you? What’s your favorite food? What’s your daddy’s credit card number?” Then she gave us a toy and a Hostess cupcake.

Because I was a boy, I got a toy gun. It was Texas, get real. But what a gun! A red and black space laser rifle, perfect for blasting aliens. “Look, mama, a drag queen stripper gave me a gun and junk food!” No wonder I’m gay.

Pixilated Vagina Hats!

Cyndi vs. Madonna: the Clash of the Titans

I was playing solitaire listening to the online radio when a newish mix for some Madonna thing caught my attention and I immediately had my usual conflicted, love/hate “That bitch” reaction to Madge. I know this is based on my outdated loyalty to Cyndi Lauper and harks back to the ferociously partisan arguments my friends and I had circa 1984 (or whenever it was. I’m too lazy to look it up. Suck off.) about how Madonna had ripped off Lauper’s schtick, but could never carry it off with the same joie de vivre. “Material Girl”? Pish. A feeble imitation of the whole She’s So Unusual album.

Still. Seeing poor little Brittney Spears go down in flames at the VMA is enough to remind me that I do like Madonna. I think the best thing the VMA has ever had was her Vogue in panniers. But Cyndi would have been even better.

Absolute Beefcake

We're sending this out to The Other Andrew, he's snotty and sick, poor lamb.

Surf's Up

R Man and I are planning a trip to Honolulu in November for his birthday. He was born there, before it was a state, but his family moved on while he was a baby and he’s never been back. Have you seen pictures of Honolulu? It seems to be a small frumpy town of bland beige 70s towers squatting on a dazzlingly beautiful setting. So, I’ve been researching hotels there. While I expected the astronomical rates, I was unprepared for how ugly the rooms look.

Hmmm.

Back to the Beefcake

Pavel Novotny is one of my all time faves, and these pictures don't even do justice to his biggest talent.

Shop Local

Our role model, Scarlet Woman in Training, http://scarletintraining.blogspot.com/, warns us that one of the great mercantile giants of our time, Good Vibrations, is teetering on the brink. She kindly points us towards a story from the SF Chronicle (not normally where I would turn for the poop on dildo purveyors, but there it is.) chron story

This must not be allowed to pass. GV is more than a merchant, they are heroes. They were one of the elements that helped drag us out of the shame and murk of sex into the (very slightly) brighter time we have now. They can’t be allowed to just go out of business, they deserve better. Plus, I still haven’t gotten my artificial butthole from them.

The Heart of the World

From Guy Maddin, the genius who brought you Sissy Boy Slap Party.

Put A Spell On Who?

1) I love Sonique and her tough girl voice.

2) I love the song 'Put a Spell on You.' because Screamin' Jay Hawkins was insane.

3) I love this video. If I ever pulled a big heist, I'd be sure to dress me and my bitches up in tight little miniskirts and bustiers, just cause.

Pee Wee Giant Underpants

The world is a lesser place without Pee Wee.

Misplaced Passion

Four years ago, I was very taken with a passion flower vine a friend had in her back yard. Dense, shiny green foliage and the most breathtaking big, coral blossoms, just the sort of drag-queeny plant I always fall for. I got one and meticulously trained it along our patio fence. And by “meticulously” I mean I spent about twenty minutes one afternoon shoving it into a trellis and then stepped back and wished it a hearty good luck. My gardening techniques may not be a testimony to quiet good taste, but they do show how well autopilot works in a San Francisco yard.

Certainly, the passion flower seems to have taken to benign neglect vigorously. It covered the fence, it covered a big ol’ ligustrum bush, it has sent shoots thirty feet up into the yard to threaten a punky little oleander, and has become the bane of my neighbor’s yard. Brilliant coral flowers appear in the most unlikely spots all over the place. The only location they absolutely refuse to bloom is on the trellis where I trained it. Why? Because it’s perverse, that’s why. Bastard.

By the way, the name passion flower refers not to fleshly lust, but rather to the passion of Our Lord and Savior, Whatshisname. Some doubtlessly repressed Jesuit botanist named it. He saw the vine and flowers in symbolic terms: the pistils representing the crown of thorns, the thirteen petals the apostles, the tendrils the flail they beat him with…. I’m sure he could have worked in Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful and all the rest, but probably got so distracted pulling runaway vines out of his neighbor’s iris bed, he just never got around to it.

Officer, Could I Borrow Your Tongue for a While?

ok, ok, ok, I swear I am not obsessed with Sen. Craig, but a friend just sent me a shot of the cop who busted him and suddenly the good senator's lapse in judgement becomes much more understandable:

tap, tap, tap

Play Spot the Homo. Win Fabulous Prizes.

Siegmund Heil, a conservative booger, sorry, blogger, reports on the matter of Sen. Larry Craig, the tearoom lurking, busted, disgraced and not very cute Senator from Idaho: “We must rally around Senator Craig and not allow him to be destroyed. Senator Craig is virtuous and truthful Christian. I can spot a homo at 50 paces and if Senator Craig were a homo pervert, I would be the first to demand his resignation.”

Amazingly, I too can spot a homo at 50 paces; it’s a little known talent I have honed over the years of looking for them. Actually, I can do it at more than 50 paces and can sometimes sniff ‘em out around a corner, but unlike Siggy, I don’t like to brag. It’s so unladylike.

My fans ask, “How, mrpeene, how can you do this? Tell us your secrets, we beg you.” Well, first there’s the passion amongst fruitcakes for fashion. Often, they will even shave their heads in order to fit in among the stylish set. Then there is the smirking, come-hither expression they hone to perfection, curving their consciously luscious lips into an inviting smirk. Finally, poofter poses are almost always a dead give-away; for example, they will often press their palm to the back of their neck in order to flex their bicep, give a peak of their nasty little pit and simultaneously pay homage to one of the icons of their perversion, the Betty Grable pin-up look. A demonstration, below:

Obviously, queer as Paul Lynde’s hairdresser. It’s also Siegmund Heil. Cute huh? Well, you know, for a moron, anyway.

http://www.siegheil.us/blog/_archives/2007/8/28/3190512.html

Taxi!

Saluting Our Fabulon Sister Birthday

The Gabor Girls are chanting as we speak

“Happyhappyhappyhappyhappydearthom”

“Happyhappyhappyhappyhappydearthom”

“Happyhappyhappyhappyhappydearthom”

“Happyhappyhappyhappyhappydearthom”

“Happyhappyhappyhappyhappydearthom”





They're doing this 48 times on one breath,
but you know, those bitches are much tougher than me.
I can't do it.

Role Models, Sweetie, Role Models

Names, names, names

Everybody Polka

I have no idea what language they're speaking, but I think it might be Wapping.

No Way I'm Disco Dancing

I swear, by all that is holy, this is the only trek dreck I will ever post.

A Cube with a View

This is what my window at work looks out at. No one else shares this windows, it's all mine, nyahnyahnyah, but the geniuses who planned our furniture situated my desk so my back is to the window. So, I turn around and stare out it a lot. I'll show them.

Let's Get This Party Started

Ai yi yi. Or whatever the Hindi version of that is.

Pleiades

I love the myth of the Plieades and this is the best picture I've ever seen of them, plus Mars (I'm an Aries) is in there along with a brilliant Persiad meteor. Click on it to see it better.

Keep Your Damn Hands Inside the Bus

I just had some representative from the French Senate (did you know France had a senate?) who came to visit our office and “find out more about your agency, blahblahblah.” I hate these things and I’m usually much better about ducking out of them, but this time I was distracted and suddenly I’m Little Miss Foreign Exchange Guide. We tend to get lots of the foreign nationals, aliens really, breezing through here, using us as an excuse to visit San Francisco. Do you think the Little Rock office has to put up with this? Hell, no. Some of them practically show up with a surfboard under their arm and actually they’re the best. A few insincere pleasantries, a couple of jokes, point them towards the good dim sum restaurant downstairs and you’re good to go in ten minutes. Everybody’s happy. It’s these ones trying to ask intelligent questions that chap my last nerve. Most of the discussion dissolves into a civics lesson - “What is a federal agency?’ “Where do you get your money?” “Who decides what your priorities are?” I just make shit up.

We used to have this pompous, fatuous ass who was worthless for any other function except to turf these visitors off onto. He was so very self-important, he seemed to be exactly what they expected a government official to look and sound like, but he died, the bastard. I show up and they obviously think the janitor’s here to empty the trash, and then I have to start talking about the federal budget. And are they ever cute? Do we ever get a delegation from Brazil of bodybuilder go-go boys? Again, hell no. I’m not bitter, just resigned. Plus all this has seriously cut into my time for reading other blogs.

I gotta go.

What Do You Get When You Google "Hot Mormon Guys"?

this

How the Mighty Have Fallen. And the Schmucks, too.

Loverboy

I’m willing to admit I know almost nothing about Sen. Larry Craig, the congressman who’s considering resigning because he got busted in an airport men’s room (or tearoom, as we used to say back in the day.) Merely his title, Republican senator from Idaho, makes me automatically assume he is not one with me in my opinions and values and that is so wrong on my part. Also, enjoying the vision of him squirming through this is wrong, wrong, wrong. Is he my gay brother? Well, let’s see, it would appear we have both looked for love amongst the plumbing facilities, so, you know, maybe.

What is troubling is not some apparently closeted power monkey getting thrown under the bus by his fellow senators. It’s the fact that in 2007, cops are still setting up stings to bust pervs looking for some action in the stalls. Don't they have anything better to worry about? Plus, doesn’t the evidence they arrested him on seem pretty feeble? He tapped his foot and waved under the partition. Sweetie, I’ve been around the block and I am fairly certain the good senator was probably looking to have his tonsils massaged with some stranger’s pecker. OK, given. Still, it just seems harsh that tapping and waving are illegal in the Minnesota airport. That that is all it takes to get you hauled off to the Twin Cities’ jailhouse. You might want to bear that in mind if you’re ever traveling through the Gopher State (I looked it up on Wikepedia. That’s really its nickname. Telling, huh?)

I would also argue that Craig’s real problem is not being dick crazed, but being stupid. Considering what security in airports has become over the last few years, could you think of a worse place to go manhunting? Was he so sex starved he couldn’t keep it in his pants until he got to the hotel and the services of an agreeable rentboy? Again, I’ve been there and am sympathetic, but even I know when to tap and wave and when not to.

Igudesman and Joo. Rock On

He's sweaty and got an accent Zsa Zsa would have a tough time topping and I think he plays the piano with an electric toothbrush at one point. Plus, "Autumn Wind."

What a Sweet Face

Life in Alta California

At Heath Ceramics in Sausalito. We love Heath.

On the way home from eating shrimp on Tomales Bay. We love shrimps.