Apple Schmapple

Hooray, life is so very sweet. R Man is home and doing great, his recovery is nothing short of amazing considering they were poking around inside his heart less than two weeks ago and today we went to the Castroand had shrimp for lunch. I hasten to add, he's been very virtuous about no fat dinners until this spree. After that, we whirled off to buy a beautiful big Apple iMac (I keep thinking iMac sounds like medicine to make you puke, but I suppose I'll get over that.) I've never used any Apple and am still stimbling around on this, the beauty being that any of my frequently bizarre typing can be blamed on the equipment.

Computer-less

R Man came home on Friday and our computer there promptly crashed the next day, won't boot up and the repairs aren't scheduled until Monday, so no mrpeenee for a while.

He's doing very well, thanks to everyone's notes of concern and well wishing. We went for a walk in the Castro yesterday, it's amazing how quickly he's recuperating.

My Boyfriend's Back...

R Man is back home from the hospital, Yay. It's been a very long day with multiple trips to the hospital and pharmacies around town, but all worth it to have the boy back where he belongs.

I'm going to bed, I'm wore out.

Who is that Glamorous Creature?

Thanks to our spies in New Orleans who FINALLY got around to sending us pictures (below) of that annual bacchanal, Southern Decadence. SD is a sizable drunken drag parade through the French Quarter which my friends and I graced several times with our presence during the wacky years when I lived there. Said friends have gone on without me, as these shots prove all too vividly. Magda, my dearest sister, sent these and she's the one in the red curly do (been working that rat-tee wig for years, girl) and our other dear, dear is in the oversized sunglasses. While both share a place in my heart for out mis-spent youth together, I have to say how astonished I am to see how much they look like my white trash aunts from 40 years ago. Of course, Magda is the one who had his very stong resemblance to the late Brooke Astor pointed out to him this year, so maybe I'm underrating him.

Southern Decadence 2007

Beefcake Bake Sale

Our head groundskeeper, Columba Urquhart, is selling his prized pecans preserved in praline sauce to raise bail for the other houseboys caught up in that disgraceful Sissy Boy Slap Party Symphony and Interpretive Danse bust over on Fabulon. The sordid details are available here , I can't bear to speak of it . I’m so disappointed in my boys, but I know they were simply lead astray buy that tacky Thombeau hussy who was egging them on.

Anyway, if you’re interested in tasting Columba’s nuts, please see him at the rear entrance to the houseboys’ dorm. I’m sure he’ll have plenty for you.

Sickroom News, Thursday

Astonishingly, the hospital is now talking about sending R Man home tomorrow, Friday, less than four days after his open heart surgery. The sole remaining benchmark he has to hit is to make a poop. You might want to remember this if you ever find yourself trapped in a hospital and want out: bowel movement equal get out of jail free card. I'm urging R Man to simply lie if nature fails to cooperate. Anything to get the hell out, although, I have to say, the nurses have all been terribly sweet. Yay nurses.

I went online this morning to try and find some information about what to do for recuperation after bypass surgery. While there is tons of info about the surgery itself and the immediate stay in the hospital following it, there's a real lack about what to do with the old dear once he gets home. I wound up reading the plot summary in Wikipedia about the Simpsons episode where Homer has a heart attack and Lisa coaches his doctor through the bypass surgery. Amusing, but not terribly helpful. Still, R Man is walking up and down the halls there like crazy mad and seems perfectly capable of coming home and lying around. Our fingers are crossed.

Sick Room News

I don't know why I'm so tired, all I've done for the last two days is hang around R Man's hospital and revel in how well he's doing. They split his chest open Monday afternoon and the next day at lunch he was sitting up and eating. Pretty much all the extraneous equipment that protruded form such odd places on him has been removed. The rather attractive physical therapist has coaxed him into two walks around the hall, with the promise of more to come. I plan on suggesting the entire effort might go better if the therapist dressed in one those slutty little t-strap thongs like the Cirque du Soleil bitches.

R Man remains in high spirits, even though I suspect his chest hurts considerably. I think he's just so glad to have the operation behind him, that he's looking ahead to the recovery, which they all tell us is long and arduous, with equanimity and to the promise of possibly coming home as early as Saturday with anticipation. I'm only now starting to look around and admit how frightened and unsettled I've been since this started on Friday afternoon. It's only six days, but it all seems so long ago.

I need to make special mention of our saintly friend Tim who has stuck with us through this entire time with love and good humor, hanging out in the hospital with us and keeping our spirits up even while he had challenges of his own to meet. Friends like him are a rare treasure and we love him.

I also wanted to thank everyone who took the time to write in with your support and affection. When R Man's condition erupted on Friday afternoon, I wasn't sure I would include it here in the blog, it seemed sort of inappropriate with the houseboys and in-depth discussions of 1980s sex clubs. I'm glad I did; coming home from the hospital and seeing what everyone had to say in the comments has been a rare bright spot in a stretch of dim days. So big wet ones to new friends like Elizabeth and gonzo and kirin; to old pals and troublemakers like Wesley, Jason, TOA, sickoricko, ayem8y, danny, tigeryogi and especially thombeau and our dear oldest friend Ronda. Not that she's old... oh, never mind.

Big thanks to you all; it's been more important than you know. It amazes me to have friends I've never met who helped so much through a tough time. Luv ya, mean it.

Beefcake Polish

Gunther, our assistant housekeeping houseboy, has developed a fascinating technique for dusting objets in the parlor. While the practical effects are limited, many of our guests seem most impressed and have asked to watch the naughty puss at work. It turns out Gunther is a Libra, which might have influenced his modus operandi.

This is What I Get for Comparing Doctors to Plumbers

I had just finished posting the previous bulletin, sitting here listening to the Petshop Boys and feeling all floaty and Valyummified (note to Wesley: little Valiums are yellow, big boys are blue) when the hospital called. R Man had woken up three hours early and was asking for me. The jolly nurse put him on the phone (didn't you just have open heart surgery, I wanted to ask. I've taken longer to recuperate from pedicures.) They had recently taken the breathing tube out of his throat (!) and his voice was croakier than Tallulah Bankhead, but he still asked for me to come over, that he wanted to see me.

I didn't mention the Valium, because, you know, what the hell? I threw on a sweater (black cashmere, even in an emergency, you need to look nice.) and hit the road. Thank god I had a mis-spent youth that involved plenty of driving under the influence so I was able to wheel on over to Pacific Heights in record time without struggling. I even found a legal parking spot.

Once I was there, I was so glad I went. The poor thing is all tore up, battered, with wires and tubes and things sprouting from him like a Borg with a hardon. The Intensive Care Unit is just like on TV and his nurse Diane defines sweetness. Speaking of being sweet, R Man said he just wanted me there so he could tell me he loved me. I was stunned. Sometimes, often, he is so much more than I deserve.

Bizarrely, he felt chatty, wanted to tell me all about the operation, the cute anesthesiologist, what an angel Diane had been, wanted to hear all about how I had spent the afternoon, lalalalala. He finally admitted his chest hurt a lot, which Diane said was probably the tubes pressing in, so she shot him up with something big and pretty soon he started to drift back off. He sent me on home and said he'd see me in the morning. The whole thing was very domestic, except for the monitors beeping and the big old tube sticking up out of his neck.

I have to say how relieved it made me to see him, even in such an extreme situation. I really feel much more confident that things are going to be ok.

And especial big thanks to everyone who responded so promptly to these earlier posts. Your support and good wishes have come to be very important to me. They help a lot.

Heart Surgeons, Plumbers: What's the Diff?

R Man's surgery went swimmingly well today. They started about five hours late, which meant we got to sit around the hospital room chatting all morning while the anxiety level mounted like some ridiculous reality show contest. Finally they got under way and I think to make up for the delay, they wound up doing a quadruple bypass. Frankly that smacks of grandstanding to me and you now how I hate any affectations, but I didn't want to say anything to the little doctor telling me about it. He seemed so pleased with himself I hated to hurt his feelings. Plus by then I was just dazed from hanging around hospital waiting rooms.

Actually, once they wheeled R Man off to the knife room, I trotted down the street to the Kabuki Spa to try and relax. No it's not that kind of spa, it's a no-sex Japanese baths. Fabulously stylish, great steam room, a salt water hot tub, and today they had big bowls of sliced apples. Yummy. Oddly enough, although I usually adore the place, today I just somehow couldn't get in the mood. Funny, huh? So I gave up and went back to hospital to hang in the lobby and wonder why any waiting room where people are already tense would have two televisions tuned to CNN and Fox. News nazis, just what I want to listen to while I'm worrying about a loved one.

So the doctor came out, said it was fine, no problem, R Man will be out of it all night and that I should go home and come back tomorrow. R Man will be in the hospital for at least five more days recovering. He didn't mention anything about taking a Valium when I got here, but I'm sure that was just an oversight, so I took a 10 mg (they're such an attractive shade of blue, aren't they?) and now I feel ever so much more calm. Come to think of it, I already was so relieved I'm sort of numb,so maybe the Valium wasn't precisely necessary, but it's too late now.

This is a picture of me and R Man from years ago in the photo booth in the basement of Woolworth's on Market Street. It's my favorite picture of us.

the pipettes - pull shapes

In an attempt to prove I actually listen to music performed in the current century, I present the Pipettes. I am so be-grooved.

Of course, their sound purposely imitates the girl groups who were fading from sight during the Nixon presidency and the video is a an homage to Russ Meyer from the same vintage, but I love it. It has what sounds like a Hammond Organ line in it. What's not to love?

For SickoRocko

Have you been to sickoricko's blog? It's a must-see for fans of dick pictures. http://sickoricko.blogspot.com/

He posted several of an old favorite of mine, Adriano Marquez, and I told him I would post a new one of the dear boy here because I couldn't figure out how to include a photo in the comments on his page.

General Hospital

It's been a rainy soggy day in San Francisco and I spent most of it in the hospital visiting R Man. He's remarkably calm and has been playing host to a stream of friends rallying around, god love them. I know lots of peope are freaked out by hospitals, but I spent a long part of my youth working in hotels and they've always seemed very similar to me, like well lit, but poorly decorated hotels, so I'm right at home. If someone handed me a time card, I'd probably clock in and start looking for the front desk just out force of habit.

Today is also R Man's birthday. O boy, let's party in the hospital. All of the nurses are terribly sweet including the one who made a special trip to get him a piece of cake since he din't get a real birthday cake. My only cavil is that my past experience in hospitals as always included buckets of eyte candy guys, but this time, we seem to be running sort of short. Maybe the cute boy shift is on when I'm not there. Still, I'm most satisified with the very kind nurses.

Monday they split R Man's chest open and start redeocating his heart. I'll be glad when this is all over.

Brenda Dickson 'Welcome To My Home' Parody - PART 2

I thought the original Brenda Dickson videos were pretty funny, but I realize now they were simply fodder for this parody which makes me laugh until my face hurt.

I swiped this from the darling Wesley Darling's blog

Dazed and Confused

I've had my share of odd days, but today may be one of the strangest. For one thing, today is the anniversary of mrpeenee and R Man. Twenty-six years ago tonight we hooked-up, as the youngsters say, in the backroom of a bar in New Orleans and started the complex navigation to the lovely happy life we have now. Coincidentally, I was 26 years old, so tomorrow morning, I will will have had him in my life longer than I lived without him. In all those years, I have never had any hesitation in saying he is the center of my universe, the joy of my life, the cream in my coffee.

After a late lunch this afternoon (at Chow, of course. I recommend the pear cobbler) we went to shop for tile for our bathroom renovation and then on to R Man's appointment with the cardiologist for an examination. I'd have to say that was the point where the day tipped over into the bizarre because that was the point where the good doctor announced R Man had to go immediately into the hospital for angiogram. An angiogram is where they stick a tube up through the artery in your groin into your heart in order to shoot radioactive dye into you to see if your arteries are blocked. I was well and truly flipped out when they wouldn't let us just walk across the street to the hospital, but made us wait for a wheelchair to transport R Man over there.

It turns out that a regular part of these angiograms includes an angioplasty where they do actual repair work. Once they have a look-see at how badly the pipes are plugged up they can sort of Roter Rooter out the cholesterol crud that's blocking the way and then you go home the next day and subscribe to AARP. Except for R Man who has such severe blockage of two arteries and a major branch that he has to have coronary bypass surgery tomorrow. Maybe Sunday, they're not sure.

My approach to bad news is to just ignore it, to stick my fingers in me ears and sing "Lalalalala, don't hear no lesbian subplot" until it's over. Having disaster strike like a brick falling on one's head is better suited to that system than a growing problem one should be planning for. Still, even for me, this is all pretty breathtaking while I think R Man is sort of numbed. Three hours after standing around admiring expensive Italian glass mosaic tiles, they're prepping R Man for surgery and and hour later the cardiologist starts off his little talk to me with the phrase "The good news is...." There is no sentence in the world that starts off with those four words that is ever going to go in a direction you want it to.

Everyone at the hospital seems somber, but not worried (except me and R Man) so maybe coronary bypass surgery is not such a big deal, but that seems sort of unlikely.

Anyway, so, once upon a time, R Man and I had our first night of wild weasel sex under his roommate's fur bedspread (I believe the fur was shaved rat, but it was very romantic, never the less) and 26 years later, tonight, I was cutting up shrimp with artichoke hearts from his hospital tray to feed him his dinner. That was sort of romantic, too, and R man said it was very tasty, but you know, it's just not the same.

Life's funny that way.

Jackie Moore - This Time Baby (1979)

A dear friend just sent a collection of disco greats from back in the day, including this, which has never strayed far from the top of my personal list.

I love the deep funky bass line and Jackie Moore's voice! Velvety and clear at the same time, an all-time great.

I have to go dance now.

Beefcake Surplus

We just ran across this little dickens in the houseboys' dormitory. He thinks his name might be Godetius. I'm pretty sure he's not one of ours. If he is, in fact, part of your pack, could you please send for him? Thanks ever so.

Prom Time

When he was just a wee little baby fag, Mrpeenee went to his high school prom with a real girl. Even then, Mrpeenee was a huge, albeit unacknowledged nell and dressed accordingly in an ivory brocade tuxedo and a raspberry ruffled shirt. This was in the heart of Gulf Coast Texas and the fact Mrpeenee lived to tell about it only proves what an odd, odd time the 70s were.

Toilet Talk

Thanks to Jason at Night is Half Gone, we were pointed to the now terribly famous blog report of the Diaper Alley Crack Whore (here). You just know that by now the Ho in question is an internet star and whatever divey bar he’s lurking in currently is filled with people walking up to announce “saw ya on the internet, honey.” Plus, since the alley itself is pretty clearly identified, I predict it will take its place among the tourist destinations for fans of the sordid just like the Senator Craig toilet at the Minneapolis airport.

While looking to see how much the wonderful world of Google would lead to this (answer: plenty) I stumbled across a public service website that I have to salute. MizPee. Here’s the mission statement from the site “MizPee finds the closest, cleanest toilets in your area. You can add and review toilets, get some cool deals in your area and challenge your knowledge of toilet trivia.” Toilet Trivia! Cool deals (on potties?)! A groovy little illustration of a girl crapping in her pants! Speaking as someone who recently had to negotiate with the Lady at the head of the line at Peet’s bathroom to go first, I say this is a work of genius and long overdue. MizPee, you go girl.

That's Succor, not Sucker

O happy day. The Our Lady of Prompt Succor tee shirt has finally arrived and I'm giddy with clothing delight. Not only is there the smirky low humor aspect of wearing a shirt that proclaims Our Lady of Prompt Succor (so appropriate for me, always a lady whose succor knows no limitations) but also the unexpected bonus of the illustration.

When I ordered the shirt I saw there was some little drawing above the school's name, but I assumed it was some stupid bull dog. Imagine my thrill to discover it is Our Lady her very self, rendered as a flying, scrappy nun. I think of her as Sister Euphemia, the Fightin' Nun Now with Super Powers! Ready to kick the ass of Sectarian Evil Doers and Masturbators! As R Man pointed out, if your school team is called the Succors, you really need a tough mascot and what better than a dykey Mary, Mother o' Jebus? I only wish I had a big enough chest to do justice to the wonder of it all, but you work with what you got.

Beefcake Freshen Up

Our sommelier, Pius Victorius Emmanuel, recommends the Tequila Kahlua Margarita, but only as a douche.

Ann Miller: Man Is A Brother To a Mule

Pauline Kael once dismissed ANn Miller's dancing as "tick tock tapping." but I adore her. She exudes such a cheerful, wholesome, wholehearted sluttishness.

Naked Bowling

A league I could get into.

Tooth Time

O boy, a trip to the dentist in the middle of a Monday following a week long absence from work. What more could a high living gal like me ask for? My mouth numb and achy at the same time, with a sense that the achy part is going to win out and the valium I take to make the whole thing less anxious turning me into more of a zombie than usual. And a big chunk of change I would rather have put towards a new couch now residing in mouth. My theory with dental work is that the more it hurts, the more it costs. Doesn’t that just seem wrong? For $1,400 I want a muscular asian rentboy using his mouth to distract me from my mouth, but no such luck.

And, of course, with my mouth half-paralyzed, my entire office now wants to drop by and chat. “What’s going on with the start-up kit edit?” they ask. “Mmmbf arrmmn ooosslllh,” I reply. The odd thing is no one seems to notice. Hmmm.

My dentist is a very sweet man, with charming big brown eyes. I try to concentrate on them as he’s digging away. Have you noticed the position you achieve in the dental chair is very snuggly? You recline practically into his lap and turn your cheek into his shoulder, as if you two were about to exchange tender confessions. “Rinse and spit,” he says, but isn’t that the way most dates turn out?

Fugly Furniture

O dear. We went to the San Francisco Mart's public sample sale on Saturday and to the Home Depot’s schmancier outlet, the Expo, today and I can’t even describe the horrors we saw there. The Mart is a collection of showrooms supposedly to the trade, but I can’t believe any being paid for their style would have anything to do with this crap. All the showrooms were stuffed with the exact same squat, massive pieces. Vaguely baronial or Louis XV, but not really, they look like what they are: fussiness passing as good taste. If you crossed the overwrought Mediterranean of the late 60’s with the funeral parlor stylin that competed with Art Deco in the 30s, you’d get this. It’s what Carmela Soprano would get wet for in decorating. It’s the complement to all those Tuscan villa Mcmansions squatting in the suburbs. You got a great room? These are the hulking behemouth sofas and love seats and loungers for you. You can look at them and see the lines the manufacturers have bastardized, like a fauteuil that’s run off to join the clown college.

Urine Chat

We had asparagus and butternut squash risotto last night and it was delicious, if I say so myself. I was forcefully reminded of the asparagus when I got up to pee because, man, does asparagus ever make my pee stinky. R Man has forbidden the tasty, tender green stalks from our dinner parties because he’s concerned that I will turn my stinky pee into conversation fodder for the table based merely on the fact that I have done so in the past. Also that beets turn your pee pink, but that’s another vegetable and another story.

Part of the wonder of the internet is that there is no subject so obscure that you can’t track it down. A quick googe this morning on “asparagus pee” turned up the fascinating revelation that while everyone suffers from this noxious condition (once again showing all sons of men are brothers) not everybody can smell it. One assumes only the more delicate and sensitive among us are fated to suffer so. Like me.

I just love the idea of some researcher somewhere holding up a test tube of asparagus pee, doubtlessly collected under rigorously controlled conditions, to some subject and asking “Does this stink? On a scale of 1 to 10 how much would you say it stinks?”

Why on earth would stinky pee turn into dinner party conversation? Because I’m the host and I’ll talk about anything. If it crosses my mind, it crosses my lips. Fortunately, our guests tend to be good sports and go along with it, although god knows what they have to say about the whole experience on their way home later. But someone has to make the conversation move along or else we dissolve into the cost of real estate and grousing about Bush, both of which are requirements in San Francisco entertaining.

I inherited my sainted mother’s ability to chatter aimlessly; I open my mouth and hear her echo coming out. The foundation of a thousand thousand bridge parties, it may not be profound, but it certainly is handy. Small talk is social lubrication. Plus, an important part of my job is going to business functions and standing around making chat with complete strangers. Whenever I’ve gotten through another one of these nattering marathons, I bless my mother. Although, I’m pretty sure she was too much of a Lady to discuss asparagus pee. Maybe.

Concrete beefcake

Our handyman, Fabian, wants everyone to rest assured that he should have the new water feature in our patio set and poured shortly.

madonna - she's the universal language

I actually prefer this to Madge's english version.

Love Kills - Mercury Metropolis

Of course, I love Freddie Mercury. Just his moustache alone would make me his slave.

I also am wild for the film Metropolis, both for the overall look of it and the way the actors flail around the screen.

Combining the two was brilliant, and this video is able to edit the whole movie down to a brisk 4 minutes. My favorite part is Maria's hoochy koochy dance. I often recreate it when I'm all alone.

Carrie The Muscial review

I rest my case.

Carrie - The Musical

Brilliant artiste super agent fred informed us over ham omelets this morning that at one time the classic scary movie and pig’s blood festival Carrie was made into a musical. I initially thought he was making a joke, but a quick whiz through Wikipedia confirms that indeed Broadway seems to have been so dedicated to killing itself off that Carrie - The Musical opened in 1988. Even more amazingly, it was the product of the Royal Shakespeare Company originally and the great Barbara Cook took the Piper Laurie role as Carrie’s mother.

I remember 1988 as a time everybody was still doing lots of drugs, but I can’t believe anyone was ever loaded enough to think this was a good idea. In fact, the show only lasted five performances and according to Wikipedia “It inspired the title of Ken Mandelbaum's 1991 book Not Since Carrie: Forty Years of Broadway Musical Flops.” That’s a kind of deathless fame, but probably not what the producers were looking for.

So I’m off on two searches: one, any book with that title is one I need and two, I’m hoping youtube can come up with some pirated video of the show. If it does, you can rest assured I’ll share it here.

Also, super agent fred later referred to vichyssoise as a "mashed potato milkshake" which has nothing to do with Carrie, but I thought it was funny and I'm always willing to swipe anything amusing for this blog.

Did Ya Miss Me?

I’m back from a week-long training class in a suburb of Sacramento. Should someone force on you the choice of a week in Sacramento or a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, I would recommend that you think long and hard before turning down the stick. How the capital of California can be so unremittingly dull is beyond me. The little town I was in, Roseville, reminded me forcefully of the crappy little burg in Texas where I was raised. Lots of pickup trucks and the giant parking lots to accommodate them and not much else. The most attractive piece of land in town is, of course, the cemetery. Malls spread in every direction, composed of cheap buildings tarted up to look like the much older buildings crumbling away in the downtown they have rendered obsolete. Everyone is fat, except for the sullen straight boys who seem oblivious to their own charms.

I went up there and back on the train, which was the only consolation. I love train travel, the rhythm of gliding along the tracks and the sound of the horn wailing at crossings. This particular trip goes through the delta of the Sacramento River, green and marshy off into the distance, very much like the swampy terrain where I grew up. It’s pretty, as long as you don’t have to go wading off through the muck.

Anyway, I’m very glad to be back. The beauty of living in San Francisco is what a joy returning here always is, no matter where the trip took you.