In Which We Have News from the Cat House

 

Two weeks ago when we introduced Toby the cat here, I didn't mention that Toby had originally been Secret Agent Fred 's cat.  He moved over here when Fred got too sick to take care of him and now he's my cat.  I'm very glad to have him, but it seems like a sad consolation prize for Fred's death. 

Toby is the world's sweetest cat.  As I write this, he is curled up next to me with his head on my shoulder.  I am overwhelmed with the sweetness.  Sweet, sweet, sweet.  Tout sweet.  When I would visit them, Fred would be lounging in bed and Toby would walk over his face and then lay down on top of his head.  I would always think how glad I was that I never had a cat inclined towards trying to suffocate me.  And now I do.  I just hate cheap irony.

Speaking of introductions, how did the one between Octavia and Toby go?  Not bad, but not the way I expected either.  Toby is younger and bigger than Octavia so I was afraid he might pick on her, but that is not the way this funny old world rolls.  When I opened the door to let them meet each other, Octavia immediately let loose with a string of growls and hisses.  I was shocked at such language from a respectable old widda lady.   

That was a little more than a week ago and things have settled down to a sort of stiff-legged detente.  She is still hissy, but not as implacably.  Toby, on the other hand, just wants to be friends.  His attitude seems to be pretty much "bitch, what is wrong with you?"  As you can see in the picture above, they are willing to hang out in the same room, which is an improvement over the initial hostilities.  Baby steps.  Baby steps. 

Guys, I'd like to hang out with:

I just love humpy boys with blank-eyed expressions.  Intelligence is so overrated.

It's still warm enough for tanning.  Get busy.

He looks like he would be a load of laffs.

Extra beefy.

... and extra firm.

I appreciate how they have roped him and his buttchops off for crowd control, no doubt.

Honey, I think you dropped your parachute.

In Which Flights of Angels, Baby, Flights of Angels

 

When an old friend dies, they take with them all the shared vocabulary and jokes you had.  Secret Agent Fred died Wednesday afternoon.  We had almost 30 years of dumb, inside wisecracks that no one else would have found particularly amusing, but which meant a lot to our tiny little brains.  Now I will no longer be able to say to anyone, "zip your clam."  Well, I suppose I could say it, but the charm of it would be missing.

I don't think I ever knew anyone as capable of living life on his own terms as Fred was.   He was funny and charming and I will miss him.  Zip your clam, bitch.

In Which We Texas, Just a Little

 

Yes indeedy, I have returned to the swampy embrace of Houston, my childhood home. I tell people I am originally from Houston, that is a lie; in reality, the nasty little suburb I grew up in is about 2 hours east of where I am now.  That's okay, it's all Houston.  I managed to escape the Gulf Coast of Texas 49 years ago, but my family still refers to my trips back here as "coming home".  Bitch, home is California, and 10 minutes on a Houston freeway makes me glad of it.

But I AM looking forward to Mexican food and some excellent barbecue. 

To be fair, there are moments when the old place can be charming.  It had been cloudy and rainy all day before I got here which helps ameliorate the hellish temps that are the norm in August.  I was in a good mood and prepared to be charmed so I walked over to a particularly fine donut shop and the air was soft, balmy in fact, with a little breeze. 

The particularly fine donuts are about a block away from my hotel.  I say "about" because the hotel is literally surrounded on all sides by parking lots.  There seems to be a nominal street that wanders through them, but it is very difficult to discern.  The easiest way to access the hotel is to just plow through some random parking lot.

I'm very fond of this hotel, it's attractively decorated with an actual sense of humor. And they have delicious deviled eggs in the dining room. 

The look is very plush with lots of velvet and marble and brass.  It's a design that says "I only employ the very finest hookers." 

The view from the balcony includes some of the ubiquitous parking lot, the lush green, perfectly flat landscape off in the distance, and of course, the freeway, all 18 lanes of it.  Eighteen.  Lanes.  Eighteen. Motherfucking. Lanes.

The bathroom is absolutely enormous, bigger than my bedroom at home, with the toilet discreetly enclosed in its own room.  What simply enchants me is:

A small room that opens off of the toilet.  It's finished with fancy tile work, attractive wallpaper,  and a small piece of art, but it has nothing else in it.  It has no apparent function, it's only about 8 feet wide and is, let me repeat, completely empty. I have no idea what's going on here.  Maybe it's where you send the hookers when they've been bad. 

I wish room service would send up some hookers that look like this:

I think he would look lovely in the little empty room.

The always welcome Nicolo Neri

How come some other grumpy old man gets to have this in his hotel room and all I get is the Mystery Chamber?

I have a nicer bathroom than that, even if it does not come equipped with muscle pussy.

I can already tell the Little Empty Room is going to weigh on my mind.

Where were these guys when I was a little baby gay trapped in Texas?

In Which We Are Further Be-Catted

 

Dudes and dudettes, say hello to our newest kitty passenger, Toby.  Toby is a Leo and he's very fond of stinky cat food, long walks on the beach, and hates his cat carrier.  He is also a very, very enthusiastic digger in his cat litter box, to the point of it being some kind of civil engineering project.

He appears to be constructed out of some super secret, extra heavy cat material since he is only a little bigger than my old cat Saki, but feels like he weighs about twice as much.  How is that possible?  Cats, that's how.  For that matter, Octavia only weighs about 10 pounds but she's able to shed 20 pounds of cat hair on a given day.  How is any of that possible?  

Speaking of Octavia, how is she taking this new interloper?  There's no telling; Toby is currently quarantined in my bathroom and hisses at her when he senses her on the other side of the door.  I'm surprised, Toby is one of the world's sweetest kitties, so maybe he's just still shaken up from being transported.  Octavia just seems sort of befuddled.  She had only just gotten over the fervid excitement of a Diane von Austinburg visit and now this. 

I suppose time will tell, I'm going to leave him in my bathroom until cabin fever makes him willing to interact in a polite manner.  We'll see. 

Alley cat guys:

It's possible this is AI, the background seems sort of scrambled in that AI sort of way.

Diane was taking exception to so many of our naked guys being naked youths.  Not sorry.

Freaky cowboys: where were they when I was a baby gay in Texas?

Markus Bailette and his rump.

The classic Landing Pad pose.

The beefy backside boy.

For all you daddy lovers.

In Which Mikey is a Hero

 

I've been having a difficult couple of weeks and was sort of stewing in my unhappiness when our old chum, Mikey from Chaturbate, texted me to share his outrage.  It seems that he had just found a pair of pet turtles that someone had thrown away in the garbage. 

Naturally, being the sweet, sweet boy he is, Mikey saved them.  He brought them home, gave them clean water and some fish food and, for all I know, affectionate little pet names.  I was absolutely appalled that someone would throw away living creatures like garbage.  

After venting the outrage he shared with me, Mikey said he was going to list them on a donation website to see if someone wanted to adopt them. And before we could even exchange more chatty texts, some lady had contacted him and asked for his little orphan turtles.

The whole exchange cheered me up immensely, which was something I definitely could use.  Two little baby turtles, cast out into a cold, hard world only to be saved by a pair of reptile lovin' strangers.  If that doesn't bring a tear to your eye, then you are just a hard-hearted doodoo head, you mammal.

Speaking of animal rescues, here:

Combining animal love and freaky sex, what could be better?

Ready for adoption, free to a good home.

Cute guys dancing in the sun can improve my mood too.

Diane von Austinburg is visiting and providing advice about nekkid guys.

She was demanding more "daddies"

And thus, Freddy Miller, daddy-at-large.

Ian Cage, big and beautiful

In Which We Talk the Talk

 

Tragedy has once again struck the sweet, sweet life of mrpeenee.  I recently realized I have somehow dropped the lovely and useful Southern word of "y'all."  "Y'all" is a wonderful word since standard English uses the same word ("you") for both the singular and plural second person pronoun, which is obviously stupid.  It is also a prominent feature of a Southern accent and I was slightly horrified to notice I had switched to using "you guys" instead.

I am not ashamed of my Southern accent, even though a drawl like that is commonly associated with a lower intelligence. Uh, fuck you, that's what I say to that.  And so I have made no effort to eradicate it even though I left the swampy embrace of the South decades ago.  Still, living away from other people speaking in that way eventually eroded my accent to something, dare I say it, more Californian. That's why I'm surprised when people comment on my speech.  "Honey,"  I want to say, " if you think I have an accent now you should have heard what I started out with." 

R Man and I were once listening to some NPR story about how Southerners speak and how the accent varies so drastically from place to place in the South.  One of the examples they offered was that urban people in the South would switch "these and those" for "dese and doze." I told R Man "I don't talk like that" only for him to point out I had just said "I don't talk like dat."  

While we're on the subject of speech, I have noticed the real rise in people dropping the double consonant in the middle of a word, like button or butter or kitten and replacing it with like a glottal  stop so that they wind up saying something like "bu' on" and "bu' er" and "ki' en".  I used to think of this as a phenomenon in British speakers and a signifier of lower class, but now it seems to have jumped to America and is pretty prevalent.  As usual I blame the internet for this and so much more. 

Guys, I wouldn't mind having a chat with:

I suppose he had to open the back door because all that dick wouldn't fit inside.

Buttchops.

I have simply had to come to terms with the unavoidable annoyance of PhotoShop and AI.  That said, those are some lovely, if fake, low hangers.

Strapped in and ready for a party.

Let us all ignore the looming menace of AI and just pretend this is real.

A simple lad, ready to be ravished.

I would love a muscley youth who would make himself useful by cleaning the tub.

Hello daddy.

I like to imagine this guy and the daddy above were able to share some quality time together.

I forget his name, but he is a regular contributor to the wonderful world of smut.

In Which We Are Arty

 

When we were in Paris in April (and I love any story where I'm able to casually mention I was in Paris recently. Ooh la la.) anyway, when I was in Paris recently, Diane von Austinburg and I went to this huge exhibit of Mark Rothko.  He is my favorite artist in the world, bar none. His big canvases of brilliant shimmering color just thrill me. 

I think that is sort of the point of abstract art, it wants to bypass the rational part of your brain and strike straight into your emotions.  It doesn't want to tell a story or force you to figure out what all the bits mean.  You don't have to think "what does the sheep symbolize?" "Where are the shadows coming from?"  "Why is that guy got a horns on his head?" Even the most straightforward, realistic painting has an immediate effect on your emotions. The colors are bright or they're drab and dark and you respond to that, then you can get down to figuring out why Jesus is pointing the way he is.  Abstract art just does away with all that homework.

So anyway.  I really wanted a poster from the show since I will never be able to own an actual Rothko. We stopped in at the gift shop and Diane asked the cashier about the poster.  In that very snooty way that Parisians have and which I am convinced they are taught in school, she just sneered "No." So no poster for mrpeenee.

After a few weeks of brooding, I realized I could just make an end run around the the disdainful clerk and buy one on the internet.  I'll show her.  But when I went shopping, there were posters but none were for sale.  Haughty French bitches win again.  But while I was digging through all the results, I ran across a painter who would create copies of Rothkos.  She wasn't forging them or trying to pass them off as the real thing, it was just a copy, painted with acrylic on a canvas just like Mark boy did. 

Of course I bought one and it got back from the framers yesterday.  It's gorgeous.  The guy delivering it installed it for me, thank God, and also moved a mirror which was previously hanging where I wanted the Rothko.  I have now reached Maximum Art Capacity, there is simply no empty space on any wall for any more art.  If I ever buy another painting, it will have to go in the shower.

I tried to take a picture of the painting on the wall, but it's in the front hall and I couldn't get an angle that would work, the hall is too narrow and the picture too big.  So just for you naughty pusses, I took it down, hauled its big ass into the living room to take the picture at the top of this post, but trust me, it actually looks better in the hall with the full light from the pic window across from it and on a white wall (above.)

Guys who would also look good installed in my apartment:

Naked cooking gives me second-hand creeps.

Hit the beach while it's still hot enough to run around nekkid.

Blonde and studly Matt Dubbe.

I gotta go, my ride's here.

What is this guy looking at over his shoulder like that?

If you're bad, mrpeenee has no choice but to make you stand in the corner.

Everybody loves beefy boys.