Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Silicone Based Love

Commenting on the post below, Ask the Cool Cookie urged me to shave and get out of the house and go do something, apparently in that order. I am always obedient to commands from cookies, so I did just that. Super Agent Fred and I were on the move at the crack of dawn, or possibly just after noon today. It looked like dawn to me. We went off to lunch (tasty,) browsed a fancy art supply store to look at $17 sheets of paper, and agreed to go see a Philip Glass opera on Sunday cause we're all fancy and stuff.

We also dropped back by my house for me to unload some random stuff on him like R Man's sketch pad and paper, a charming little dope pipe, and some clothes of Fred's that had been floating around here for a while. I also tried to talk him in to taking some old sex toys of R Man's, but he wasn't having it. Still, it's only your best friends on whom you can try to urge second hand naughty paraphernalia. By the way, if you're looking for a pair of cuffs lined in the finest of sheepskin fleece, let me know.

Speaking of equipment one doesn't run into at Macy's, I bought a new plaything with the horrendously accurate name of Fleshlight Jackass. I refuse to post a picture of it. There are limits which even I will not cross. If you're so fascinated, you can go look here. Is everybody back now? Good.

The poor little thing is supposed to be an artificial butthole. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, until they finally come up with the sex slave android I've been waiting for. And can I just say, it's the 21st century, still no Judy Jetson apartment buildings on elevated stilts, still no Howard Johnson's on the moon and still no Genuine Mario Lopez Model Sexbot™. What's with that?

For those of you considering the Fleshlight Jackass, let me just say "Lame." Wait for the sex androids and save your money, that's my advice. I'd say the closest approximation to the experience would be a handjob from some guy who's just had a stroke. Not that I would know. I'm just guessing.

Let me know when this rolls off the assembly line, m'kay?

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

If the Tranny Space Pirates Call, Tell 'Em I'm NOT HERE

Oh. I'm sorry. Have I been absent for a while? Turns out I was kidnapped by tranny secret agent space pirates AGAIN. If I never see another anal probe it'll be too soon.

Also, I had to put together a memorial service for R Man. Did I want to put on a memorial service? No. Did I pout like a little girl about it? Possibly. Still, our friend Gaye pointed out that "It's not all about you" which is still as patently untrue as the first time I heard that line, all those many years ago.

We had a deli cater, we had champagne and bourbon (R Man liked both,) all our friends dropped in and were all very supportive and sweet. Even Diane von Austinburg came back in town to help buck me up, which I most appreciated, since I needed plenty of bucking. I was dreading the whole thing right up until it started and then was immensely glad it was over once we were done. I got through it just fine, thank you ativan, and I even spoke a brief eulogy.

Most of the speech consisted of my not making eye contact with anyone who was crying, looked like they might cry, or even had moisture in their eye. Pretty much, I just looked at the cat. It was very much the same as any other public speaking I've had to do, just start at the beginning and blast on through to the end and don't think too much about what I'm saying.

I also included a firm caveat that there would be no chance for other mourners to speak. You know the bit that has sprung up recently at funerals for everyone to take a chance at "remembering" the departed by offering clumsy attempts at humor at the dead guy's expense so that the whole thing turns into a funereal roast? R Man hated those, so I nipped any idea of it in the bud. Afterwards, several guests thanked me, so yay for heavy handedly laying down rules.

Anyway, it wasn't awful, and afterwards we had a bunch of sandwiches left, although all the petite fours were long gone. Bastards.

So, I've been hanging around, refusing to shave or answer the phone and claiming to be going through a "rough patch." Actually I'm just lazy. Still to make up for being so slack in blogging, here's a humpy houseboy as a token of my apology.

That's not enough? OK here's another one, complete with MeeMaw's couch.

Oh, all right, here's that gay rugby guy.

I hope you're happy.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011


Yet another Beaster. Meester Beaster, I believe.
Painting the stupid office led (somehow) to cleaning out the garage. While I was in the middle of disinterring crap from ages gone by, I ran across a trunk of R Man's stuffed full of old letters and cards and his yearbook from when he was a delegate to Boy's State (isn't that adorable?)

Mixed in with the other ephemera was a letter addressed simply to "Beaster." That got a good laugh, let me tell you. R Man was the most courtly, gentlemanly being since Victoria's regent shuffled off and he lived life with an unstuffy gravitas that charmed everyone who knew him. He was also fond of a little rough sex, so certainly I wasn't the least surprised about this form of address.

There was no signature. I guess the writer supposed anyone he was calling "Beaster" would recognize him. In this, I believe the author might have been a tad bit over-confident. R Man, and, indeed, anyone worthy of the sobriquet "Beaster," cast a wide net and counting on him to remember every fawning toff was just sort of delusional. Also, counting on R Man to be pleased with a nickname as sappy as "Beaster" was pretty unlikely, but that's neither here no there.

For myself, I initially called him "Daddy" and then for years never got around to coming up with anything else. Inertia. It happens. Eventually, that morphed into "Doo-doo" and then "Doo-doo Head." Again, neither here nor there.

Speaking of icky, TMI babytalk between longtime companions, he called me "Peenee." Perhaps you had wondered where "mrpeenee" came from? Perhaps you should have. I recall how annoyed I was the first time he slipped up and called me that in front of our friend Ricky, who then adopted it enthusiastically as what he referred to me as for years. Of course, R Man and I called Ricky "The Felonious Little Tart" so I suppose we were all even.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Thank God That's Over

Our previous post asked the question " Decorating Project or Madness?" The results are in and that minx MJ was quite right in declaring it "Madness." Every step twenty times harder than it should have been. I ripped out the desk the very nice guy who owned this house in the early eighties built in. He was enthusiastic, god knows. Originally there were cabinets and shelves and desks and closets (including one especially designed for LP's. Do you remember LP's? Well, you must be terribly old, darling, terribly.) Over the years here. I've removed pretty much all of them, regretfully. They were beautifully built and I knew they must have been a great pride to him, but, like the LP closet, they just didn't work for us.

So I approached this desk knowing it would be a fight. All of these pieces have been over constructed, obviously designed to withstand teenagers and earthquakes. This particular one had a number of amusing aspects: It concealed a bunch of medium sized holes in the drywall behind it and which were just a little too big to patch over with spackle, so I had to turn to my least favorite skill: taping and mudding. My older brother, who is a whiz at this, tried to teach me and finally gave up after he saw one of my better attempts. "How did you do that?' was all he said before sending me off to sand flood boards. Time has not improved my abilities.

Also, part of the builder's enthusiasm meant he not only nailed the fucking desk to the fucking floor, he drove the nails THROUGH the floor so that now that they're gone you can take a peak and see what's going on down on the patio below. Delightful.

Finally, I dragged the last of the desk's carcass out and started prepping for the paint. R man, for years, refused to ever allow me to paint. He claimed, repeatedly I was too sloppy. Of course, he was right. It wasn't that I disagreed with him, I just don't care. Most of the paint winds up where I want it to, what's the problem? Oddly, my "what the hell" attitude does not extend to taping around the edges. I attack taping the way lesser mortals go after genetic research. And yet, it's never enough. I have spent the last two days going back over and over paint that got past the tape cordon or the tell-tale traces of crimson that I was trying to cover that kept peeking out. Red is a terrible color to work with, it's famous for not covering well and yet trying to smother it equally tough; the tiniest bit shouts out like Divine at a church lady picnic.

Also, I finished the first coat of the lovely aqua over the primer and realized I hated it. Sort of an industrial blue gray that would have looked appropriate on an upscale warehouse, but is that what I was shooting for? No.

So I went back to the paint store, maxxed out my credit card on another gallon, this time lavender. They have a charming sign in the store "Nothing is so expensive as cheap paint." Considering I could have spent the week with a couple of rentboys for what I've sprung on these colors, I tend to be rather bitter when I walk past that sign. Nevertheless.

I covered a small wall and a big chunk of another one and realized the lavender was in fact, purple. High school loser girl trying to develop an interesting personality purple. I stood stuck in the middle of the room, horrified, trying to decide whether to go back to aqua or forge on into lavender land. It's possible I wept. Anyway, I decided to go full on lavender, mostly because I was standing there with a brush and a pan full of it. And you know what? It turned out just fine. It's not purple, it's gray blue lavender and it changes beautifully with the light (the room faces west and gets a hot yellow light that does very well with the color.) So, a primer layer, a coat of aqua, and two of lavender which I consider doing the same job four times, goddamit,

Finally, I am through. A week, seven goddam days painting one bedroom. Did I mention the black trim? Very dramatic and a complete bitch to try to keep tidy. Still, though. Yay.

I had decided the old kitchen table we were using as a computer desk simply wouldn't cut it, so I bought one at Crate and Barrel, decided it was too big, canceled it and ran over to their cheap bretheren, CB2, where I found one I liked better for a third of the cost. SCORE.
In fact, let me just run down the sweet day I had today, after finally getting the painting monkey off my back. a) the weather could not be lovelier, warm, sunny, blue; palm trees rustling in the breeze; all the cherry trees in town bursting into frothy pink blossom a month early; attractive young men wearing minimal clothing. Nice.

b) the nice lady at a framing store I'd never been to gave me a break on matting a dumb little poster and agreed to have it ready early. c) I went back to the massive, on-going garage sale where I bought the lovely Canton china last week and found another saucer of it as well as a cool orange desk chair, for the new office. The guy was firm about $15 bucks for the chair, but threw in the saucer and sweet glass cakeplate.

I drove down to CB 2 to pick up the desk and found a parking place directly in front. For free. Let me repeat, I found a parking place, not just in downtown San Francisco, but in Union fucking Square on Sunday afternoon right where I wanted. The CB2 guy not only rolled the box out for me, he put it in the car. And then I made an illegal uturn and got the hell out.

I was in such a good mood, I stopped for ice cream in the Castro on the way home. Again, fabulous, fabulous weather; cute guys everywhere one looked, ice cream and some car playing Cee Lo Green's Fuck You, one of my favorite new songs. I was so in the moment, happy as a duck, when I remembered I was supposed to be all grief stricken.

That's the odd thing. Turns out life goes on, even this soon after something really terrible happens. I'm not saying I'm never unhappy, I miss R Man tremendously. The sadness that comes, though, is more like an ache, not a stabbing crippling grief. It seems I'm just not made for blind remorse. Sometimes the house seems really dark and cold, sometimes my life does, for that matter, but most of the time, I'm OK, just sad. I didn't expect this and I'm such a coward, I have to say, I'm grateful. R Man and I had a really long, really happy life together, I would hate the last chapter of it to be a tragedy. That just wouldn't be right.

So I ate ice cream and ogled cute boys
and came home and built my new desk. A sweet life.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Decorating Project or Madness? You Decide

Ach, mein little lady boys, such doings at mrpeenee's fine, fine home. I have decided to repaint our office, which has been a brilliant cardinal red for 20 years. Enough. I'm going for a greenish aqua, with white trim. One wall is basically black cork board, which I'm leaving. Have you ever noticed how these simple decisions snowball into major projects?

After I decided to paint, I realized I didn't like the setup of the room: a built-in desk centered on a window with a single bed at right angles to it on the left and a country style kitchen table (which we've always used as a computer desk) perpendicular to the desk on the right. Flanking the bed is a large built-in bookcase and next to the table is a squat ugly bookcase. I've decided to rip out the desk, ditch the table, move the bed to the right of the window, and put the the squat bookcase on the same wall as the built-in one, for symmetry. I have an old vanity that belonged to my mother that I will place between the bookcases.

So. The desk is not only built-in, it's constructed oddly with weird little sort of wings the height of the desk and about 4 inches deep that are also attached to the wall the desk is part of. I don't know what's behind them and am not sure if I can get away with leaving them in place, thus simplifying the whole thing or if they have to go too.

Also, the squat little bookcase has its own oddities. The shelf that forms the top of the case sticks out past the sides about three inches. I have no idea why. R Man designed it and had an extremely cute junkie in New Orleans. It's very well built, as was the junkie. I don't remember his name, but I do recall his aquamarine eyes and that we had a very interesting afternoon groping each other while his wife and R Man were at the A&P. Tease.

I plan on cutting off the jutting edges of the book case and building an addition to it that will make it that same height as the other one. Nothing to it. All this just because I got tired of the red paint.

I would post before and after shots, but the camera battery is dead (natch) so you'll just have to believe me.

In Which We're Calling It In

In the middle of an unnecessarily annoying and complicated day last week, my phone decided to commit suicide. I was Ubering along playing Ya...