General Hospital

Yesterday was actually mrpeenee and R Man Gay Doctor Day. The 7:00 AM scheduled biopsy meant getting up before dawn. mrpeenee is not at his best before the goddam chickens have even arisen, nevertheless, we got there on time and settled in for a day filled with medical stuff. That's a technical term. Specifically, it comprised another cat scan, a biopsy, and not one, but two x-rays.

Each procedure went terribly smoothly, with long, very long gaps in between. We were there for seven hours. R Man was on a gurney the whole time, hopped up on surgical type drugs. Where, I wanted to ask, are mine, but the nurses were so incredibly sweet and competent I couldn't bring myself to give them any shit.

I had an excellent book for company and my on-going grudge against waiting room decorating to distract me. What is with them? A hospital seems like it would certainly know what is physically comfortable even if they don't have the design skills to say no to pastels and that weird Blandanavian style furniture that seems so omnipresent. But no, seats better suited to McDonald's with big fat depressed people spilling over the sides. I just stood out in the halls, reading.

Also, I noticed a complete dearth of cute guys. Hospitals are usually staffed with guys who look like some cross between soap opera stars and porn actors, but this time not a single bit of eye candy for distraction. I think word may have gotten out about me.

So anyway, we won't know anything about the biopsy result until next week. Stay tuned.

SF Sunday, Peenee Style

Thank you all so much for your responses about R Man's delicate condition. We don't know exactly what it is yet, but I'm sure it's delicate. Your thoughts, prayers, chants, snarks, are most appreciated. Truly. It's great to have friends who turn to so promptly, so yay for you guys.

In order to nurse the old thing along, we slept terribly late this morning (it was, as SecretAgentFred pointed out, "The second Saturday of the weekend.") and then repaired to Foreign Cinema for a late lunch. Deeeelish.

I wore my striped sockies for that Clown Foot effect because I am, you know, gay.

We had a tableful of cute guys next to us for conversational fodder. It's possible they were porn stars. If not, it certainly was a waste of good pussy.

And the backyard is in full, blasto bloom.

To reiterate: blue skies, shinin' above, etc., etc....

Blue Skies, Shinin' on Me

I've been listening to lots of Dinah Washington lately.

Especially the old Gershwin song, Blue Skies. Just last week, while ambling over to some enchiladas for lunch, I was singing the bit about

"Never saw the sun shinin' so bright,

Never saw things goin' so right"

Obviously, I was riding for a fall, at least that's what I thought looking back on my carefree, humming along days when we discovered on Wednesday that R Man has a tumor in his lung.

Since we bought our house 13 years ago, R Man has had to endure cancer, pancreatitis, open heart surgery, and George Bush. I think I can be excused for thinking "Isn't it somebody else's turn?" Apparently not. We're scheduled for a biopsy on Tuesday to see what's up in lungland.

I know from past experience when I'm confronted with bad news, I immediately panic, flailing around mentally the better to imagine all sorts of terrible things; once that passes (fortunately, pretty quickly. It's just lucky that I don't have the attention span for long term consternation,) I drop into a sort of myopic numbness. One step at a time, just focusing on what I have to get through right now.

I also start cleaning. By the time R Man recovered from his heart surgery, our house gleamed, the envy of Martha Stewart. At one point, I vacuumed the window screens. And not just our little home. While trapped in various waiting rooms, I will straighten magazines, throw away trash and, if stuck there long enough, rearrange the furniture to my liking. I have, more than once, considered asking for a hammer so that I could re-hang the art. Receptionists all over San Francisco look at me warily when we show up now.

Do I think everything is going to be OK? Oddly, I do, sincerely. The good thing about getting through bad times is that you're sort of toughened up for new ones. We'll see. Anyway, I gotta go, I think I need to scour the bathtub.

Princesspeenee, reporting in

But why can't I be a Lady of Leisure? I have the attitude, I have the wardrobe (three pair of cashmere socks and some almost-clean tee shirts,) I have stacks of things to sit around reading, and I had 18 petit fours, but they seem to have been eaten. If it wasn't for this stupid "employment" thing, I would be good to go. Just this afternoon, I was trapped in a committee meeting and thought, "Now this, this is the wrong life."

Here is some boy beef, complete with Stupid Hair, the bane of cute boys everywhere.

Roxy

Did you know Bryan Ferry (aka “God’s Gift to My Ears”) released an album in 2007 of covers of Bob Dylan songs? The things that go on when I’m not paying attention. Having stumbled on that on Pandora radio, I wandered over to the Wikipedia article on Roxy Music and discovered a lot of cheap talk about the band reuniting for a new album. News that made me squeal and leave a tiny, tiny, hardly noticeable wet spot on my chair.

Then, farther down in the article Ferry casually denied that any such fabulosity was possible. From Wikiland: “However in November 2009 Ferry stated that there will be no new Roxy Music record: ‘It was overly publicised, when Brian Eno and I went into the studio together, that we were re-forming. We worked together for a few days, weeks maybe, and I decided I didn’t really want to do a Roxy thing. It’s going to be a solo record. Brian plays on a couple of tracks though.

‘I don't think we'll record as Roxy again... But it would be great to do some more Roxy Music concerts, although I don't think Eno will be involved.’

”

Why? Because he loves to break my heart. But I continue to love him anyway. It’s the Judy Garland in me.

Rescue

Bob, over at I Should be Laughing, pointed me towards this, and I’m sharing it here because they told me to at the end of the video.

I am just crusty enough not to cry, but I thought about it.

Never Say Die

Perhaps, those of you with a bent in that direction, of a certain age and with a fondness for feelthy pictures will remember the monoymous Bruno from Colt Studios, back more than thirty years ago in the Gay Dark Ages. Of course you do, he had the most beautiful chest hair ever visited on man by the gods. Here, maybe this will refresh your memory:

Somehow, during my recent research on economic platforms for marketing small businesses, I ran across a more recent snap of the old darling. What? It's the internet, it happens. And you know, he's still looking mighty, mighty fine.

The old roue.

Turn to mrpeenee for all your updates on the porn. Speaking of which, I would like to publicly thank the good folks over at www.smutjunkies.com because they are the best source for smut research going.

Honestly, the youth of today.

Several years ago, during an enormous family vacation out here to visit us, I took two of my nieces and one nephew down to get tattoos. Isn't that the sweetest thing EVER? It was their idea, let me hasten to add, I was only along as a chauffeur. Plus, they were all in their 30s and already in possession of quite a bit of ink and piercings. Their father, my brother Ed, claims his youngest daughter looks like she fell face first into a tackle box. Hee hee.

So, driving along, making small talk, I asked "What does 'Get jiggy wit it' mean anyway?" I was just making a joke, but they all chimed in terribly earnestly to explain it to me, obviously taking pity on me in my declining years. I would have been mortified anyway, but then I realized none of their attempts at translations made any sense because they were trying phrase it in terms that wouldn't damage my aged sensibility. I wanted to protest that I am NOT OLD, that I am terribly hip, but as soon as you try that, you're lost. Best to just sit down and watch the Golden Girls marathon and dream of cheesecake.

To make myself feel better, I have turned to houseboy Septimus Septbooty.

mrpeenee's Big Night

It is no secret mrpeenee and R Man lead a very, VERY quiet life. Almost every evening you can find fireside reading while Renaissance music fills the background. And yet, Saturday night we were out experiencing the mad gayness of San Francisco nightlife, Yes, it's true, there we were in a little boite callled the Rrazz Room (ridiculous spelling their own idea) watching local drag phenom Justin Bond (Kiki of Kiki and Herb) in his new show, Queens of AM Radio.

Having been though the evolution of FM radio in the late 60s, I assumed this would be a tribute to girl groups like the Shirelles and Dixie Cups as well as, surely, Dusty Springfield and Dionne Warwick. Which was fine with me.

Instead it turned out to be a trip down a much more recent memory lane, specifically, according to Bond, "1972, poolside, in Los Angeles." Darlings, I was there, 17 years old in 1972 (go ahead and do the math, I'll wait for you) and believe me, that intro sent shudders down my delicate spine. Warranted, too, as it turned out.

It was a very amusing show, but still, an evening that includes Afternoon Delight, Midnight Blue, and Midnight at the Oasis cannot be considered an unmixed blessing. High points were Linda Ronstat's Different Drum and the Carpenters Superstar mashed up with Joan Baez's Diamonds and Rust. Pretty great, but still, Afternoon Fucking Delight?

Plus, as I mentioned, I was there, and I remember by 1972, AM radio was the province of your grandmother and old cars. Even Melissa Manchester's Midnight Blue (you were wondering where that came from, weren't you?) was on FM radio. Crappy FM radio stations.

The best thing about the show was the very casual air of it all, Bond had his IMac on a stand in front of him to read the lyrics and at one point in the big finale of one of the numbers, stopped and announced, "I don't even know what key we're in." I didn't either, sweetie, but you know what? It didn't matter, a good time was had by all.

Sprung

Every year there comes a spectacular morning when, suddenly, spring arrives in mrpeene's yard. It's not a matter of sweet little blossoms peeping out, or the scrubbed blue sky after a big storm, or even the fucking weeds so lush they look like a cash crop, although all of that is part of it. Simply one day I get up, look out the back windows and there it is, tah dah, spring. In 2010, let us record that that day was March 11. Yeah, I know, the Ides.

Here's what we got as of today:

Today my plans include a trip to the grooviest nursery on the planet, Flowercraft. Why are they so groovy, pray mreenee? Darlings, please. Most nurseries used to be nothing more than racks of plants with big bags of fertilizer around the edges. Then the evil marketing overlords realized if they made pretty little arrangements of their stock when it was at it flowering peak, dazed gardener suckers (that would be me) would be powerless to withstand the allure of a candy-striped camellia in full bloom and wind up dropping significant, unplanned wads of the moolah.

Flowercraft is as guilty of this as any other nursery. What I love about them is that after the plants on display have peaked, they haul them off around back to a Half-Price section, the very notion of which delights me, the conjunction of my love for thrift stores and gardening in one place.

My whole yard is filled with the once bedraggled leftovers I rescued from back there. Almost all of them have thrived and rewarded my stingy nature with sort of excessive beauty. For example:

Part of the thrill of discount gardening is the mystery in it. Since I buy things after they've stopped blooming I usually have no idea what color and form I'm getting. That cherry pink hydrangea, for one, was a complete surprise.

Anyway, this weekend, besides working half-price land, I'm on the trail of a Chinese wisteria.

Ever since I was a tiny faglette, I've adored wisteria. Along the Gulf Coast, their blooming is long and exuberant, with a heavenly scent and, let's not forget, purple. One of the first purchases I made for the garden here was one. The next spring, after I had already had a trellis built for it, imagine my surprise at discovering it was a white one. Alba. I tried to hide my disappointment from it; after all, it couldn't help its color, but I think it could tell. It never thrived, punked along for a few years and now is a decorative stick.

This time, I'm throwing caution to the winds and springing for one in bloom. A call just now to Flowercraft assures me they have some in stock. And the best part? It's called "Texas Purple," a salute to my Lone Star childhood. Yeehah, bitches.

Jackass, Part Two

What is most remarkable is that queers everywhere were so incensed by whatshisname's interview, they were too distracted to comment on the fact his cover photo looks like he's wearing a kabuki mask composed of Estee Lauder Silly Putty. And you know, it takes a LOT to make us all overlook that.

Jackass

Just Jackass.

Din-din

So, after speaking so longingly of deepfried mini cheese burgies, what did mrpeenee have for dinner?

Half an apple (Pink Ladies, but of course.)

Two Mandarin oranges.

Half an avocado

and two vicodins. Rare.

As Diane von Austinburg's ex-grandmother-in-law use to say, "It's a good life, if you don't weaken."

Grease Bombs

My, my, the things one stumbles upon in otherwise perfectly respectable venues, in this case the Houston Chronicle. The paper this week was gearing up for the mad, gay extravaganza of the Houston Rodeo (when I was just a wee little thing, the rodeo was still referred to as the "Fatstock Show" and let me tell you, a lifetime exposure to that term has not dimmed its inherent weirdness. Doesn't "fatstock" sound like some pervy interest in overweight dragqueens wearing fussy, but cheap lingerie?

A feature focused on food at the rodeo and highlighted a number of artery clogging specials, including

Deep Fried Mini Cheeseburgers.

I would like to maintain some facade of food hauteur and claim I am disgusted, but truth be told, they sound pretty darn alluring. Certainly more so than Fatstock Porn, featuring Chi Chi Larue in a bustier.

Hi. Coo.

Over the years, I have occasionally tried my hand at writing haiku. When I've shared these gems with our dear friend Diane von austinburg, she has responded by pointing out these thoughtful and delicate works of genius so very frequently deal with my reluctance to get out of bed and go to work. “What” we ask “is your point?” Haiku are supposed to express an image of a season and an emotion. It just so happens that I am always willing to stay in bed, season in and season out, and for me, laziness is an emotion. So there.

haiku d'peenee:

It’s a cold, hard world

But my bed is soft and warm.

You think that’s a choice?

Cat says "wake up, pops".

Outside, the day lays waiting.

Blankets embrace me.

Houseboy Hermionus Strindberg demonstrates the proper Staying-in-Bed-Tiger-Lotus pose.