Stream of peenee

On occasion, I wander back over to take the book quiz. Oddly enough, I always have different results. Must be the phase of the moon, I don't know. In the past I have been Lolita (big yay) and Jane Eyre (Rats. What can you say about falling from Lolita to Jane except "rats.") Tonight, I scored another thrill.

You're Ulysses!

by James Joyce

Most people are convinced that you don't make any sense, but compared

to what else you could say, what you're saying now makes tons of sense. What people do

understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once

brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in

the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you

additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.

Take the Book Quiz

at the Blue Pyramid.

Talk about being on the money.

I will be honest and admit that I am one of the many, many people who have never made it through Ulysses. The first chapter beat me to the ground. Still, I am enough of a snob to be pleased to be in Joyce's company. Take that, Eyre, you tedious bitch.

No Designers Were Harmed in Making this Design Star

This is the last time you will ever see my blog soiled by a reference to Design Star. I've gone from liking it a lot, to watching it because it was so bad it was sort of amusing, to now being nothing but irritated by it. Besides, the charming Design Blahg already writes about it much better than I ever did, so I'm happy to let them cover the idiocy. You should go see their site if you haven't already. Sweet.

I understand Design Star is actually just another game show, but in the first few seasons there was genuinely talented designers competing, which made it more interesting to watch. Last year. they were bad, but this season they are completely without any skill at all. The finished rooms are almost painful to look at, the best they ever come up with is bland.

Here's what I don't like: all of it. The cheap ass lack of budget which forces everyone to decorate like impoverished waiters; the stupid and arbitrary time limits which forces everyone to cut corners that the judges then ding them for; the inane challenges "This week, you'll be required to be inspired by something that means nothing to any of you. Go."; These stupid, stupid group challenges were everyone has to be a team player but be individualistic at the same time. Just what does that have to do with hosting a design show? Nina. And I didn't even watch the show where she got a boot up her ass. Damn. And mostly Vern Yip. The Yipster. Yippy, a Chihauhau Among Men.

Mean, petty, blustering, a number of other blogs and comments have suggested that something large in his rectum would improve his disposition. I prefer not to speculate. His own show revels that he has the design skill of those excessively large ladies you see in Bed, Bath and Beyond buying fake grape vines to swag over their curtain rods, and yet, he lays down his dictum in the judge's section as if it were holy law. And totally arbitrary. Somebody gets the boot for a room that looks "sterile and unfinished," but the winning room, that he swoons over, looks almost identical. The fuck?

The closest I'll come to a recap of this week's show (with Donald Trump! Junior! Did you know there was a Junior? Did you know he looks like a not very successful used car salesman?) is reflecting on how the two contestants who got kicked off both seemed pretty "Yeah, whatever. Just get me off this fucking dog show."

And the Grand Prize! Hosting your very own HGTV show! Wow! Except this year, now having piled up an excess of mediocre talents from previous years, a couple of which still haven't gotten their show on the air, and a few of the others with theirs in some 6:00 AM Thursday limbo, the producers have opted to make your show an online production. Again, wow! You know, I have my own online sow, I call it my blog. In fact, you're reading it right now. And I have 52 followers, which is a few dozen more than whatever lame ass show they come up with will ever manage to scrape up.

Anyway, I'm outa here. It used to be fun, but it was just one of those things. Dear HGTV, it's not me. It's you.

Houseboy Pilas Magnus has offered to help everyone get all that nasty Design Star taste off their tongue. We appreciate Pilas's generous offer.

Sides o' Beef

You may have noticed I enjoy boys with big muscles. They're just so appealing, darn it.

It's no surprise, then, that I wound up on some stupid email list of some stupid body building site that regularly provides me with photos that are supposed to entice me to go pay to view the profiles. The problem lies in the fact that I am not attracted to these guys at all. I do, however, find them sort of funny, in a perverse kind of way.

It's not that "They're too big," as some would squeal. I like big guys. And it's not their bizarre orange hides or the fact that their poses make them resemble reptiles attempting to mate, or even the expressions that imply a lack of fiber in their diets. It's the sum total weirdness, the tout ensemble that so enthralls me. Pictures that make me wonder "Did you actually see these shots before you published them?"

Well, What Does Broadway Go For?

Pour Thombeau. And dear little Diane von Austinburg, who is gadding about NYC right now.

Also, the Carpenters' "Ticket to Ride"

We had some friends over a while ago and while chatting about music UrbanSteeetPirate mentioned he doesn't like covers (a version of a song performed by someone other than the original artist. ) I was astonished, I assumed everyone liked them. Why else would there be so many?

Certainly, I'm perhaps a teensy too fond of them, a possibility brought out later that same evening when another friend asked, rather sharply, "How many version of Homosapien do you have?" Uhm, three? Four?

I have everything from Dusty Springfield covering Dionne Warwick's Anyone Who Had a Heart (sweet) to Cyndi Lauper doing a bang-up version of Disco Inferno (burn that mutha down.) What's not to love about a remixed Sarah Vaughn singing the theme from Peter Gunn? Triple points there, I think. I even stand guilty of the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus cover of Dancing Queen.

Is it wrong?

Workaday Life

Have you ever come in to work and discovered you have a few dozen new emails waiting for you? That means before you even stumbled off the elevator you were behind. And have you ever decided, seeing that list of petulant subject lines, "I'll go through these, but I'm deleting any of them that are too much trouble. I can always deny getting the stupid things." Have you ever done that? Certainly I never have. And if that bitch from the state economic development office says any different, you really shouldn't listen to her. She's on the dope, you know.

Also, I'd like everyone to say hello to our new houseboy Pendulus Octarian.

He'll be helping out in the commissary, filling cupcakes. He's a muffin stuffer.

Carry Me Back

I had a long, long dream last night that I was back in New Orleans, for Mardi Gras. And I was hanging with my good friend Tina Louise, who was in absolute Ginger drag.

And I was wearing suede hotpants and boots. I was fierce, bitch.

Hush, Hush, Sweet Zsa Zsa

This just in from the always-cutting-edge L.A. Times:

Zsa Zsa Gabor surgery went well, husband says

July 19, 2010 | 11:03 am

Zsa Zsa Gabor had hip replacement surgery Monday morning, days after injuring herself when she fell out of bed, and her husband declared the procedure successful.

The 93-year-old actress broke her right hip Saturday after she fell out of bed while reaching for a ringing telephone at her Bel-Air home, said John Blanchette, Gabor's publicist.

Frederic Prinz von Anhalt, Gabor’s husband, called an ambulance and spent the night with her at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. He said this morning that thesurgery went well.

Blanchette said, "When Frederic called me from the hospital, he said, 'John, it’s bad, it's really bad.' " A native of Hungary, Gabor appeared in more than 40 films and became known for her multiple marriages and lavish lifestyle. Her late sisters Eva and Magda were also actresses and socialites.

Gabor has been partially paralyzed since 2002, when a car driven by her hairdresser hit a pole on Sunset Boulevard. She suffered a stroke in 2005.

"She's a fighter, and we’re hopeful that things will work out well," Blanchette said.

Gabor's daughter released a statement Monday saying she hoped the surgery and recovery would go well and that her mother's condition isn't dire.

"My mother is not in critical condition or at death's door," Constance Francesca Hilton said in a statement. "She was on the phone in the hospital today while having lunch."

If you want me, I’ll be in chapel, leading prayers for the last of the Blaessed Gabors. Assisting me will be houseboy/priest Grupo Cantibus

and houseboy/alterbitch Knockus Pooter

.

Also, ever astute Donna Lethal emailed me about this saying simply “You KNOW he pushed her.” Indeed, I’m sure Donna’s on to something here. Or maybe just on something. Still….

All this convinces me that when the Lifetime Channel (“Now, thirty percent more scorned women!”) finally gets around to producing the Zsa Zsa Gabor biopic, all the roles should obviously be filled by us bloggers, we band of brothers. And sisters. And nancyboys. Cause who carries the Gabor torch higher?

This is what I’ve come up with so far: Mlle. Lethal could be the young glamorous Zsa Zsa; I will assay the withered, elderly, but still glam Zsa Zsa hag, knocked out of her bed by the evil Prinz (played by thombeau.) And, by the way, what the hell is “Prinz?” His title? His name? A profession?

Mean Dirty Pirate can be the slap-worthy cop. Jason will, of course, handle the Thelma Ritter, loyal maid servant, possibly in blackface. We’re still working out details. Speaking of details, I see Miss Janey as a mime. What? You got a problem with mimes? Sheesh. Take your stinking mimephobic ass elsewhere, please. She’ll be great. Felix in Hollywood and Kabuki Zero, of course, will be Eva and Magda. Muscato, I think, can deliver Zolie as no one else could. MJ will be trouble, but then again, isn’t she always?

Casting is still open. Who shall you be?

goddamit

Saki has long enjoyed sitting on top of the printer while I'm using the computer (nothing like having your feline companion stare at you while you attempt to study porn to heighten the moment.) His recent trick of puking onto the paper and the paper tray of the printer is new, though.

Don't Bother Me, I'm Reading

This week, I've been reveling in a return to my teen years, but without the angst and acne. One of my favorite authors from that time, Andre Norton, has resurfaced in my reading. She (Andre was a nom de plume employed to circumvent the sexism in publishing in the early 60's) cranked out science fiction by the yard and I ate it up.

Her characters had the depth and subtlety of Rocky and Bullwinkle, but without the humor, her story endings always seem to come less as a resolution and more to comply with some page limit her editors had imposed and every single one of her plots were identical. A young, sort of asexual loner is ostracized for a crime he did not commit and must make his way in an alien society filled with mysterious relics of a vanished society. Just the thing for a sensitive, budding homo who had no access to porn (me.)

Her writing style is the most stilted, archaic prose this side of Tolkien. I'm constantly surprised no one busts out with a "Forsooth..." occasionally. I quote from a selection at random:

"I shivered as along my spine sped a cold chill...."

No wonder I write like I do.

Oddly enough, all these gems were not some Arthurian fantasy knock offs, but space cowboy based. The loner outcast was an astronaut kicked out of his rocket ship (which had "finned down" at the space port,) armed with a ray gun, and tarted out in the latest in 1960s spacesuits.

Since Mlle. Norton (whose bio strongly hints at a sister-of-sappho background) wrote so very many books, you can usually count on finding some at just about any thrift store. My current is the classic "Moon of Three Rings." And naturally, any story that includes the line "...do you offer to bring them thereafter and let me talk unto them." would have this as the cover:

No wonder I'm queer

Adventures with the Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

So Titty and I were having a few down at this terribly pretentious "Bourbon Bar" south of Market. Titty likes to stiff these places by running up a tab and then reminding them how she's Mother Theresa and then she starts crying about the poor starving orphans in India and the chumps pretty much always fall for it. I don't usually like to go along with these shenanigans because she's Mother Theresa, for chris sakes. The possibility of going to hell for this seems high. But this bar is so pissy about their liquor, gassing on and on about "Fine bourbon is like the best cognac: blahblahblah." All I know is bourbon is what my old man would fall back on when he couldn't find any more cheap scotch. So not impressed.

Anyway, we were chatting about the inequalities wealth distribution creates in the so-called "Third World" when Titty hauled out some of her crappy drugs. I swear, hanging with that woman is like being cast in the road show of Ab Fab. She is constantly reaching into her ratty old fake Chanel bag (of course it's fake. "Chanel" on it is spelled with two "nn's" like Channel No. 5 is your local NBC affiliate.) and pulling out these very dodgy pharmas.

"You want some?" she cackled "It's viagra I scored off some schmuck in Mumbai."

"Titty, I am pretty sure viagra will do nothing for whatever withered up Lady bits you might still have."

"Bitch. I know that. Whatever these are they ain't dick pills. They make my blood pressure go up so high my head feels like it's going to splode, but then I get plenty loaded."

"Darling, what you have there is just pig tranquilizer. For heaven sakes."

Our friendly chat might have gotten out of hand at that point, but just then, Titty spotted some poor victim who looked a lot like Adam in the Sassy Gay Friend/Eve video.

Have you seen the Sassy Gay Friend videos on YouTube? Terribly amusing. Heroines from Shakespeare (and now the Bible) have their fates averted by the timely intervention of the eponymous Sassy Gay Friend. Go Here for the latest http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQhkzYVlLl8

Anyway, Sassy fed this guy her viagra/pig trank and the last I saw they were simultaneously wearing her granny drawers announcing they were Siamese twins co-joined at the love joint. I left.

The Gays

I am such a cheap slut for the most paltry compliments. I received the following in my email sort of recently, as have a number of my little blogging pals, and reprint here:

I noticed your deliciously mrpeenee blog. Fun stuff! I’m also a blogger, but from the other side of the border... Montreal. I provide content for The Montreal Buzz, it’s Tourisme Montreal’s official blog. I’m was wondering if your readers would be interested in a contest we’re holding called “Queer of the Year.” It’s the international search for a fab individual who will be crowned (you guessed it) the “Queer of the Year.” Here’s what’s at stake: · 5 free trips to Montreal · Spa package, fancy restaurant dinner, and $3000 shopping spree for the winner · The title of “Queer of the Year” Heck, YOU should be entering! We still need an entry from San Fran! Anyway, all the deets can be found at www.queeroftheyearcontest.com. And if you have any questions about the contest, let me know. Let me know when you’re in Montreal. I’mma buy you a drink. PS: We just got posted on The Advocate yesterday! (http://www.advocate.com/News/Daily_News/2010/07/07/Montreals_Search_for_Queer_of_the_Year/)

He called my blog delicious. Isn't that adorable? I feel like voting for him as Queer of the Year based on that alone. As for casting myself, alas, I do not make the videos.

Also, while noodling along over on the famous gay blog www.towleroad.com, I stumbled on an odd comments war between men who embraced the term "queer" and those who felt insulted by it. How bizarre. I thought this whole thing was a relic of the 80's. I remember the older generation of gay men then saying almost exactly what these guys (who mostly identified themselves as under 30) were saying in this comment section. So now many of us seem bracketed by fellow travelers who still take exception to our calling ourselves queer. Again, bizarre.

I remember the defiant thrill of taking up the label, of applying a name to myself that seemed to thumb my nose at those who would use it to deride me. I still do. But for those 'mos who are upset by it, I say OK, just don't get in my face. Or I will call you a nancyboy.

There is no evidence that this young man is a poofter, sissy, knob jockey, fag, shirtlifter, fairy, pansy, fudge packer, queen, ladyboy, bender, flit, Mary, pillow biter, sodomite, or queer. I just prefer to think that he is.

Sassy Gunn

I don't usually include videos as posts, but the combination of Sarah Vaughn and the theme from Peter Gunn is too much to pass up.

Design Star. Now Completely Talent-free!

Oh god, is he going to yammer on about Design Star again? Why yes, yes, I am. I can't help myself.

HGTV's game show masquerading as a talent-based reality show is back. Back and lamer than ever. A weekly train wreck, I am reduced to watching it solely to see how bad these designettes can be. This week, they took on team decorating a deck because the show is based in Manhattan and I when I think of New York City decorating, patios immediately come to mind, naturally.

As R Man pointed out, the results looked like an outdoor dorm room. And not a very nice dorm room either. Everyone on the show is either stupid and clueless or clueless and stupid. That's it. That's the only two flavors they have available this year. One guy, who was supposed to be taking his "inspiration" from a cello, painted a wall yellow and babbled about Sedona. The fuck? He had to ask the cellist to play something since he apparently didn't know what a cello sounds like. That's inspiration baby.

And the previous show, when they took on two identical apartments and both wound up with, pretty much, two identical apartments. Generic, bland modern with the furniture arranged the exact same way, and both with the living room oriented so the seating has its back to the wall o' windows. You know, living in mid-town Manhattan, who would want to see sunlight and sky and stuff when you can stare at the dead wall holding the front door?

Last year, writing about the show, I said:

"... the contestants seem to regularly fall into immediately recognizable clichés, the easier for the audience to pick out who to root for without wasting precious time on getting to know the characters. There’s the vaguely artsy chick (this year with a kind of biker/punky thang going on,) the obnoxious, overconfident nell, the token black woman, the straight guy to prove not all decorators are poofs, the bleach blonde prom queen with good jewelry, and the humpy eye candy guy. The rest are just fodder thrown in there in order to be voted out. Nobody has cried about how they miss their family yet, and no obvious catfights, but it’s still early."

Gosh golly, it's like I'm psychic, cause all the same cliches have been rolled out this year, with the exception of the token black chick. Maybe they couldn't find one. And I have to say the eye candy this year just does not cut it.

Unless it's supposed to be the silver fox guy.

Either way, there is no comparison with past candyman and my imaginary husband, David Bromstad.

And yet, I will be back each week, deriding the whole circus until the bitter end. This week on the HGTV blog they ask "Who should go home next?" Uh, all of them? Bring back David and Dan and the pornstar cop and start over.

In Which mrpeenee Learns Not to Eat a Dead Cow.

This is not me, it's just a picture I found. Bitch.

That pervasive low, moaning sound? That is not Nicole Kidman attempting to "act." That is mrpeenee reacting to his barbecue bacchanal yesterday. Lord honey, I spent all night last night like a beached whale, wondering if pulling my spleen out would be worth it if it just made a little interior room.

It was not my fault. In the first place, that barbecue was good, and I speak as a Texas boy who knows from good seared cow flesh. And good barbecue out here, in the land of precious food stuffs is painfully rare. What could I do? In the second place, when faced with a platter of ribs, I instinctively react the same as I did when I was teenager in the swamps outside of Houston: I tuck in. Voraciously.

Of course, eating as one did when one was a skinny 16 year old turns out to not be all that great an idea (I always got the three meat combo platter with a side chopped beef sandwich. I never understood why anyone didn't, there are three meats there, why deny yourself? And nobody said a sandwich wasn't a side. Duh.)

I was lying in bed, dully resigned to dying of a potato salad and brisket overdose. My only concern was that if my previously expressed wish of being cremated were carried out, the resulting grease fire could have taken out the west side of San Francisco. That's just me, always thinking of others, even as my enormous intake made the bed slats creak underneath me.

Ooh, also, we had homemade (by me) brownies with ice cream and homemade (also by me) hot fudge sauce. So, ok, maybe it was my fault, but maybe it was all worth it.

A Foggy Fourth

Our friends Anne and Mike brought over barbecue ribs for dinner tonight, which was terribly sweet of them, especially since Anne is a vegetarian (she had macaroni.) I had hoped we could watch the (completely illegal) firework shows down in the Mission neighborhood after dinner. Every year, the best displays are put on by the thugs in the 'hoods below our canyon. We watch them from the hill at the foot of our street, which we refer to as the Loma cause we're all California and stuff.

So here's the view of the Loma about 5:00:

And here it is, about 8:00, shortly after dinner and as the fog was blasting in:

Fogific Fourth of Julys are simply the way things roll here more often than not. So instead of fireworks, we had a lovely, cozy fire and listened to disco off my iPod.

Certainly, as a child of the south, I understand how inconceivable curling up by the hearth on a July evening seems, but we do it a lot. The Pacific at our doorstep acts like a big ass air conditioner and I, for one, bless it every day. The idea of owning a set of sweaters I wear all summer is both endearing and ludicrous and you would have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming.

The disco was nice too.

Yeah, What's Up with Buddha Anyway?

I was originally going to use this photo in the post below:

But then I realized you could see his wiener! Oh Em Gee. I would hate to pollute my readers delicate sensibilities, plus, I know it's Jewish Sabbath someplace by now and I wouldn't want to offend, although this guy certainly does not look Jewish, am I right?

Then I started to wonder if maybe instead of his peepee, if might not be just a picture of some generic trouser mouse printed on the panties. That would be cute. If Abercrombie and their Bitch shows up with this next season, I am so suing.

Or maybe it's simply an optical illusion, shadows and folds of fabric creating the effect of man sausage, sort of like how the face of Jeebus shows up on screen doors or tortillas. I've always loved that idea; nothing would convince me of the divinity of some zombie based fairy tale like its protagonist's image on food products somewhere.

And is whathisname the only godlette shoving his mug into people's lunch? Do devout Hindus (did you know Victorian writers used to spell that "Hindoo?" I much prefer that.) Anyway, do devout Hindus occasionally look down at their chapatis and see Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds, looking back at them. Wouldn't that be disconcerting?

And Buddha? What's wrong, Buddha, you too cool for snack product placement? Sheesh.

Anyway, I think he has really pretty hair.

Books 'n Beefcake

I was browsing on Amazon (because I am an easy mark) and came across an interesting sounding book. I refuse to share the title of it now, I want no one to know the depth of my shame. Just let me say that not even I could get past the last sentence in the product description/review:

"...one that will help her heal the pain of her own past and allow her to love again."

Oh really? That's your plan for pedaling this dog? A tagline that was musty when it was dragged out for an RKO weepie 80 years ago? No thanks.

In other book news, I am willing to share the name of what I'm currently engrossed in, Her Fearful Symmetry. Beautiful and interesting writing, by the author of The Time Traveler's Wife, but I'm only about a third of the way in and it seems to be losing steam. I plan on forging ahead, we'll see.

Also, houseboy Gunter Vitagio (below) has offered to heal your pain if it will allow you to love again. Reasonable rates apply.