Sunday, July 31, 2011

My Fair, Lady


Secret Agent Fred and I went to the Dore Alley Fair this afternoon. It's a typical street fair, burnt fajitas, bad margaritas, big crowds, you know the drill.

Plus partially naked stripper boys.
I love San Francisco.

Monday, July 25, 2011

True Blood, Fake Accents

So I went crawling back to Comcast. Yes, it's true. Last April I tossed their sorry ass out, made a bunch of big talk about "I don't need you, bitch" and now I am back in bed with Satan's own minion.

And why? Alcide from True Blood, that's why.


Who could say no to all that? Certainly not me. As fond as I am of porn, I have never seen any smutress who can stack up to Joe Manganiello. His only drawback is his last name, which just took me three cracks to type correctly.

Anyway, I watched it last night. Specifically, the episode where Eric, the big blond Alex Skarsgaard (again with the fucked-up last name. Is that a requirement for this show?) vampire runs off and winds up facing down Alcide. Both of them naked. Plus Alcide growls and flexes his big square man tittties. Could any scene be more thrilling? I'm considering canceling all my porn subscriptions,

I'm also considering watching all future episodes on mute because the fucking dreadful fake Southern accents are so bad they make my teeth hurt. The producers apparently have been watching far too many reruns of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof because everyone on the show sounds like Judith Anderson in that.

There is a wide range of accents in Dixie and while none of them are the gumbo that pours out of True Blood actors' mouths, what these misguided souls seem to be winding up with is more northern Alabama and Georgia, sort of a faux-Atlanta drawl. Let me tell you, honey chile, the fine folk out of the swamps of southern Louisiana do not sound like they're looking for Tara. In fact, southern Louisiana doesn't even sound like northern Louisiana, which is a lot closer to east Texas. And the fake genteel ones of the rich characters is just the worse. They all seem to have watched one too many reruns of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

So will I continue watching? Of course. I haven't even mentioned Ryan Whosits, Jason Stack house.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

How mrpeenee Spent My Summer Vacation

Usually I don't put up new posts because I am a lazy slug, but since returning from Los Angeles, I've felt that I couldn't move on until I actually post something about the trip. Plus, I am a lazy slug. Herewith, mrpeenee's LA confidential. Progress on my slug-like state seems unlikely.

Our flight attendant was totally booty-licious.
I kept referring to him as our "stewardess" which I know is technically incorrect, but Miss Lady Girlfriend was nellier than even I, so it seems OK. His name was Marche (or possibly Marshay) which led to my repeated incantations of "Marche, Marche, Marche." Our attendant coming back lip synched the safety instruction tape. People applauded.

The weather was mild, we went swimming at night (which I love,) the bougainvillea was spectacular.


We hit the boy bars in West Hollywood, where we were staying, and I drank cocktails. The bartender at Mickey's was making up fake drinks to set out on the bar (who knows why? It's that kind of place.) He seemed embarrassed that I wanted to take his picture, but he has nipples like gumdrops, so what does he expect?


Frank Gehry designed a building that features a four story pair of binoculars by Claes Oldenberg in either Santa Monica or Venice. I can't tell them apart, says the Northern California snob, and I'm too lazy to look it up. I wanted to show Secret Agent Fred, but I had left the address in the hotel, so I asked Fred to text our friend John to ask him to Google it. John texted back "Tell the heiress to go buy a goddam smartphone." Bitch. I managed to find it anyway, because I am triumph incarnate. The building is going to be the new L.A. headquarters for Google. Isn't that brilliant? I hope they can afford a new paint job for the binoculars.


I took more pictures of the way too cool restaurant at LAX than I did of anything else the whole trip. I thought it was still closed, but it turns out it's been re-opened, so we blew in for drinks.
The place is, obviously, Judy Jetson cool, but the renovation it suffered somewhere down the line is tragic. As 80's as a Cyndi Lauper tribute band with these ridiculously inappropriate diner style tables and chairs. Somewhere there is a designer who should be dragged out and shot for this.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

When Bloggers Collide

Because I'm a lazy slob, I haven't gotten around to reporting in about my fabulous, fabulous trip to Los Angeles. It's possible I will do so soon. No promises.

In the meantime, here's a teasy little shot, representing yet another triumph in mrpeenee's attempt to capture all living bloggers in a bar. In this case, the equally charming and sassy Donna Lethal and Felix in Hollywood. We were in a bar, we were loud, details to follow, although I will say they're both way cool and Felix's tour of Hollywood was genius.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Dreams of a Dreamy Dream

In our "Hell in a Handbag" post below, corespondent Debs commented "medicine for bone cancer also gives one very vivid, livid dreams...." Amazing, since the one side effect of my AIDS medicine I didn't mention is the onset of immensely amusing dreams, totally different from my previous unconscious, very realistic with internally consistent plots and effects. Plus I can direct them at will during the dream itself. If I don't like the way things are turning out, I'm aware of it and can re-channel the action into more pleasurable directions. I'm wild for them.

Saturday night I had one where I was a house guest at Martha Stewart's place, along with our dear, dear chum Glenn Close. Of course, since it was Martha, the house was a beautiful series of Paladian pavilions, pretentious bitch. I couldn't really pay the proper attention to Martha or her goddam dogs since I was terribly busy as a high fashion model in the middle of a photo shoot. I had to calm the overwrought Italian photographer by telling him "Shut up, I know what I'm doing" in flawless Italian ("Stai zitto, io so quello che sto facendo," in case you were wondering, and thank you Google's translation thingy.) It's possible he was so nervous because I was wearing a gold suit with a gold tie set with gemstone. And I don't mean it was gold colored, I mean it was gold metal, but I was able to pull it off with my best vogueing. I know what I'm doing.



Real Italian models. Not mrpeenee. I know what I'm doing.

And then last night, probably overly influenced by my own blog, I dreamed I was sexing it up with the Night is Half Gone Aries guy. We were in a beautiful room paved in sea glass tiles and I was driving him wild by sucking, gently, on his horns. The ones on his head, silly. There was a little red knob on the end of each one, like a Jujube. I was so sorry to wake up.


In other mrpeenee news, Super Agent Fred and I are winging it off to Los Angeles tomorrow for a few days in order for me to escape from the kitchen renovation. I figure if I can't have a kitchen, I might as well do so in a nice hotel. Felix in Hollywood encourages us to come out on one of his fabulous sounding tours, overriding my puking whine about the heat. I know it's California and whinging about the heat here is nothing to endear us to readers suffering along where the temps are serious, but I'm delicate darling. Delicate.
We certainly hope this is included on dear Felix's tour. We would hate to ask for our money back.

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...