Serious

San Francisco won the World Series.  Whoo.  Yay.  Considered me as thrilled for the home team as it is possible for a gay man completely uninterested in sports to be.

Celebrations of the win around town turned into the widely expected teeny tiny riots.  Dozens arrested, people stabbed or shot, small-ish bonfires hither and yon (and by "yon" I mean the middle of Mission Street.)

Even the Castro, our gay epicenter, was not immune, but much more tastefully.  Secret Agent Fred and I were down there about midnight (long story, let's just leave it at we were down there.)  Toilet paper streamers crumpled onto the street everywhere.  I've been saying for years how the Castro has been dwindling as Gaylandia, but last night, perhaps, just perhaps, gave me pause as we heard someone screaming "Christina!, Christina!  Clean up this mess." And plenty of people apparently got the joke.  Maybe there's life in the old girl yet.

Before: streamers artfully strewn.

After: crap in the street.

This Just In

God love the commenters of mrpeenee, miscreants all.

In two recent posts, I included photos of guys who had intrigued me, but whose identities were lost in the mists of the internet.

Exhibit A

and B

 Of course, readers of this blog would be the source for all things smut and sure enough, two of our minions came through.  And a big thank you to both of them.

umaneo reports the first one is straight porn guy Tommy Gunn.  My in-depth investigation reveals that he is an attractively rough looking customer.  In the scenes I watched (for archival purposes only,) the young ladies receiving his attentions up the poop chute seemed genuinely discomfited.  Oh, yeah baby.  Wait, that's not what I meant to say, I meant, Brute, of course.

almchrl1 then chimed in about the second one "He's a Russian model, Dj and performance artist.I fergit his name…."  Turns out a quick google of those terms reveals he is one Pavel Petel,   Besides being a great big humpy hot homo thang, he also has a number of interesting insights into being a great big humpy hot homo thang in Moscow, where his sexual identity is illegal.

His Tumblr site, HERE, is most amusing, you should go look around it.  I especially liked the spread of him dressed as a unicorn, with a fat hardon, hanging with a pink gorilla.  I can also recommend "King of Twerk," but then again, I would, wouldn't I?

Cause If They Don't Dance, Then They're No Friend of Mine

Turns out I vacation so I can take naps in beds other than my own.  Secret Agent Fred and I took the train down to Los Angeles and I spent almost the entire 11 hour trip asleep.  Nothing is as lulling as the rolling rhythm of a train and there's really nothing else to do, anyway.

The L.A. tain station is gorgeous

We stayed in the Biltmore downtown,  where the lobby and other public spaces were also pretty spectacular, with all the original, elaborate details intact,

but our shabby rooms upstairs were like being confined in an old folks home designed by somebody who had seen The Shining once too often, complete with fluorescent lights and dingy yellowing paint.  We fled to a tonier hotel I like in West Hollywood, so I could sleep in a nice place and so we could be closer to the gogo boys of Santa Monica Boulevard.

The car rental place stuck us with a white Chevy Impala, the Car of Shame.  The poor clerk handling the exchange was trying to be pleasant, he was pretty cute, and acknowledged this was not exactly the Batmobile, but I was overcome by some kind of gay Tourette Syndrome where I couldn't help blurting out bitchy snark.   I am ashamed, but it's true, we did look like we could be busting hookers in Hollywood.  Did I just imagine the valet parkers sniggering as we pulled up?  Maybe, but this was L.A. after all, where you are what you roll.

Speaking of muscular semi-naked guys dancing to Madonna, we had a lovely evening out at some bar that I swear is a time warp to 1990.

The strippers were terribly cute and Fred has a way with them, they're drawn to him like he's a puppy with a fistful of singles.

Tragically, I now find out we missed the 2013 GoGo Boy Appreciation Day Festival and Competition by a few weeks.  Count me in for next year's.  I'll see you there.

I'm Already Gay Enough

I wish, quite sincerely, that I could more like our blog pal Jon, master of Dolores Delargo Towers and Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle.  Gay Pride celebrations are something Jon looks forward to, embraces in their fullness and enjoys completely.  He is, even as I write this, cutting a big pink and lavender swath through the middle of London.  He is most certainly unlike me already wondering how to go out for coffee tomorrow and avoid Gay Pride entirely.  In San Francisco.  The center of the gay vortex.

I understand Jon has the right attitude, that the celebration is the result of hard work and real sacrifices by better men and women than me who struggled in the face of oppression.  I know the idea of a huge parade and citywide party that lasts for days in honor of sexual deviancy is one which would have amazed and delighted those people.  And yet, I don't want to go.  I feel, keenly, that I am ingrate.

Plus, I'm sure this year's shindig will be unusually full on.  A major victory in the Supreme court is reason enough to celebrate and the timing of it seems almost deliberate.  The weather is even cooperating, unusually balmy and California-y, after a freak summer rain earlier this week cleaned everything up just in time.

I still don't want to go.  My bad.

I think a problem is having been exposed to Mardi Gras for so long and New Orleans' brilliant grasp of how to have a good time.  That's what I want here, the sassy lack of inhibitions, carpe fucking diem, that full throated WHEEEEE.  Certainly, Gay Pride here tries for that, but somehow misses.  Maybe it's the earnest fussing over not hurting anyone's feelings that hides behind the curtain of "inclusiveness."  Maybe it's the corporate sponsorships butting in: "Gay Pride brought to you by Miller Lite, Citibank and Various Other Entities that Would Have Fired Your Gay Ass Fifteen Years Ago if They Knew You were a Cock Sucker."  Although they'd probably have a hard time fitting that on the banner.  Maybe I'm just turned into a grumpy old man who dislikes crowds and fajita stands.  That's it, it's evolution.

So I'm not going.   I am an ingrate and a bad person, but here's what it comes down to:

What we want for Gay Pride:

What we get:

So where can I go for coffee?

Thanks Guys. Go Give Yourselves a Cookie.

So, almost five years ago, R Man and I got married and today, the gubmint finally, as I mentioned over on Cafe Muscato, officially declared our union Not Icky.

Yay.

Life in San Francisco

The recent Folsom Street Fair, featuring public bondage, gays dressed up like pandas, and my favorite thrift store, Out of the Closet.

Define "Gay"

Everybody knows I like the porn, right?  I have an archivist knowledge of the subject as well as an aficionado's fondness of it.  So when the topic of Resse Rideout, porn person, and his being straight while professionally having sex with other men came up (on some really unfortunate VH1 show,) I was less than impressed.  Plenty of guys doing the nasty in gay porn and other rent-type boys insist they are straight.  Maybe they really are just interested in easy money, maybe they gots issues.  Either way, I don't particularly care.

What struck me more in this instance was the substantial gap in appearance between the mister and his missus:

Reese, the kind of muscley smoothness and pretty face I'm so darn fond of.

Mme. Rideout, who looks like she would be someone you could turn to if you were interested in finding out the current price of crystal meth.

Also, as a side note, there was a period when Reese Rideout's face looked sort of odd.  I thought he had had cheap work done, but now seeing his charming wife, I wonder if, instead, it was recreational chemicals.

Cause he's not gay.  Heavens no.

Tick Tock Trick

So tonight we move on from "previous friends" to "previous tricks."  Or "men with whom I previously had some brief and probably furtive sexual liaison."   Maybe I'll just stick with "trick."

Lured into the Castro by this afternoon's lovely, lovely weather (warm in the sun, cool in the shade, 60's-ish, lalalalala) I ran across not one, but two guys who used to be on my intime list back in the day and, honey, they was looking ROUGH.  I might refer to them as the Walking Wounded, but the first was only sort of shambling along and the second was just slumped on the sidewalk.  He might have been talking on his Blue Tooth, but since he wasn't wearing one, it seems more likely he was just having a quiet chat with his demons.

I don't think either recognized me; the first since he was distracted by dealing with the open door at Walgreens and the second because he was distracted by being crazy.   Besides, there are lots of men in this fine, fine country of ours who would only recognize me from the top of my thighs to the bottom of my hips.

And before any of you let loose with some supposed humor about what this says about my taste in mens, let me emphasize these connections were light years ago, when these poor guys were both more functional and solidly cuter.  But then again, so was I.

Let me, then, salute all the cute guys who are out there right now.  Here's to ya baby.  And even though I have retired from the lists, I encourage the rest of you to celebrate their beauty by squeezing on it as often and as much as you can.  Because tempus fugit, baby.  Tempus fucking fugit.

Gay Pride 2012

So very much what I was not looking for.

Secret Agent Fred and I celebrated Gay Pride in San Francisco by ignoring the whole thing, waiting until all the boa-clad revelers were down at the giant, messy celebration by City Hall, and then sneaking down into the Castro to have a very late lunch at nice newish joint called Jake's.  It was very tasty and since we ordered off the brunch menu and I was wearing a pink tee shirt, I figured that counted as my personal Gay Pride.

Then we went over to the Fashion Sensation's house and listened to 80's dance tunes and told stories and washed chocolate and cheese down with champagne.  Wonderful.  That's my idea of The Gay Life.

Rhymes with Cough

It's Gay Pride AGAIN? Already?  I can tell because the lovely warm weather we had for the better part of a week has imploded and we are back to the San Francisco norm: chilly and gray and foggy.  As a San Franciscan, that's ok with me (I always feel underdressed without a sweater or two,) but one does feel sorry for the pathetic tourists, foolishly dressed for what they thought was California as they stand around shivering and their bare legs turn blue.  I snuggle into my summer suede coat and think "Sorry, suckers," and hurry past them.  Sad, really.

Tourists were very much on my mind this afternoon hanging around my favorite little cafe, Peet's, trying to read as a table of them loudly debated the correct pronunciation of the local major thoroughfare, Gough Street.  There were several brave cracks at it, including the classics "Goh" and "Gow" and "Joff" and one of them even landed, briefly on the correct "Goff," but was voted down by his fellows.  Again, sad, because I'm sure the snotty cab drivers hereabouts will refuse to take you anywhere you can't pronounce to their satisfaction.

Possible gays, but pretty much what representative of what you can be sure will be in the decided minority come Pride Day.

Sos anyway, I'm preparing to hunker down and ride out the rainbow colored madness of it all. I have some errands on Friday and after that, it's me and the cat home all weekend casue I'm already plenty gay enough, thanks.

Gaystrology

I'm pretty sure I have no truck with astrology. After all, my own birthday is the day after that of R Man's father, and that poisonous old fart was the nastiest iceberg of toxic waste I have ever met so maybe it's just that I hope there is nothing to the notion that the heavens rule our spirits.

There may be, though, an overlooked horoscope sign: the Gay Icon. In the less than four week spread between mid March and early April we have

Liza Minelli, March 12. "Hold it together, Minelli."

Joan Crawford, March 23. "Don't fuck with me boys."

Aretha Franklin, March 25 (seen here in her short run Yes, I Skinned Big Bird, Whatcha Gonna Do About It Bitches? cabaret act.)

Diana Ross, March 26. "I'm just gonna run down to the corner for some 40's and then I'll be ready for another goddam chorus of Toss Me in the Morning."

Bette Davis, April 5. “I'm the nicest goddamn dame that ever lived.”

If only Judy Garland (June 10, bizarrely enough) were in the mix, we could rename the whole thing as Mary Month and be done with it.

Street Fair

Oh, Castro Street Fair. Super Agent Fred and I stumbled into each other there yesterday and that was pretty much the highpoint of the day. That and the vicodin I washed down with a dainty little Cosmopolitan. If you've been to any street fair, I'm sure you know the drill:

Smoldering fajitas contributing to global warming.

And semi-naked boys, contributing to nothing.

My favorite booth was the "Girl on Girl Dodgeball." Plus, I accidentally bought raffle tickets to win admission to Cirque du Soliel when I thought the prize was a pass to a bunch of art shows instead, but by the time I figured it out, too late. I suppose that means I will inevitably win to see, as Carmen on South Park says, "a bunch of gays in sequins."

mrpeenee, Queer

What could be more appropriate for Gay Pride week than Cyndi Lauper's birthday? I love this remake of her old Money Changes Everything. I think her voice is better than ever and she's toned down the idiosyncratic yips and yaps and barking she used to decorate her singing with. Plus she's rocking a zither, or as much of it as she can reach around her enormous knockeroonies, and some guy is playing a squeezebox.

Are you sufficiently gaye? Find out. Get your Gay card on.

Tip: raise your score by answering “yes” to everything just like the real mos. “Wanna drink?” “Suck my dick?” “D&D free, right?” I would have had a perfect score, but I hit the last question, which implies black and brown do not go together, and I had to refuse to lower my standards by saying yes. I know they’re shooting for sartorial solecisms, but I also have my eye on an antique chair upholstered in black leather with brown velvet stripes I’m mad for. Plus, if you really think black and brown don’t go together, you have obviously not been paying enough attention to Kristen Bjorn’s smut.

Tragically, in light of mrpeene’s devotion to celebrating queer sensibilities, he has sprained some stupid tendon in his right hand. Since I am right handed, this is getting in the way of a number of things I need to do, things like grab a bottle of Mineragua (my new fave bebeda,) or clutch pearls when shocked, or snatch up a baseball bat, or lots of things. Lots of things.

OK, so baseball bats don’t really come my way that often.

The Gayest Two Minutes and Fifty Seconds in History

It Gets Better. Really.

I know I've been slack on posting lately. Sorry. R Man is really sick and taking care of him wears me down. But now I am revived by listening to Dusty Springfield over and over, like some teenage angster.

Also, porn helps.

Besides, I stumbled on Joel Burns, the gay Fort Worth city council member's immensely moving video dedicated to gay teenagers who are thinking of offing themselves begging them to understand that things get better. I'm sure you've seen it, everyone has. So sweet and heartfelt and right on.

I should have stopped at getting all teary eyed and just though happy warm thoughts about how outstanding Burns is, but oh no, I had to go read the Fort Worth newspaper's story about it and its online comments, many of which were supportive and many of which were the sort of moronic asshattery I knew to expect. Why don't I ever learn?

I have mentioned that I was originally from Texas. I am, in fact, the fourth generation in my father's family born there. I am proud of my heritage (or "mah hairtudge" as I would have called it in my youth.) All it takes, though, for me to realize that, yes, getting the fuck out was way the right idea is to read some ass wipe's assertion that Burns' list of children who have recently killed themselves to escape homophobic bullying is nothing to be so worked up over, that they should have "sucked it up" and, I don't know, gone on to lead a life as equally miserable as that of the commentor.

That's why I think the "It Gets Better" campaign is admirable. If I could have just had someone say that to me when I was trapped in Baytown Texas with no idea that anything like an escape actually was waiting for me, I would still be grateful to them.

Does this post make any sense? I don't think I care. I have a valium and my bed waiting for me. See ya.

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.

Lively Up Your Commute

I took the subway up to the Castro after work this evening to meet R Man. Naturlement, it was jam-packed, but I nimbly snagged my favorite place to stand if I can't get a seat and then, as a reward from the goddess for all my sweetness and wonderfulness, this terribly cute young man in a lovely black suit with charcoal pinstripes wedged in next to me. Even our positions were ideal, I was able to ogle him without being vulgarly obvious. Not that that has ever slowed me down particularly, but it's nice to avoid it, if one can.

But the very most best part? As we pulled into the Castro station he bent over to pick up his briefcase/backpack/manpurse/clutch/whatever and bumped his ass very firmly into my hand. Not on purpose, get real. And I WAS NOT GROPING HIM. Had I been doing so, I certainly would have done a better job of it than the brief, but thrilling contact I managed. I got off the car humming, it takes so little to make me happy in these, my declining years.

Unfortunately, he was not Ross Hurston, pictured above, although he was dressed even nicer. I've seen Hurston on the street here a couple of times. One of the sweetest things about San Francisco are the feral porn stars we get to observe. I was surprised to find out he has an Australian accent, but then I was surprised to find out porn had dialogue, so I guess that makes sense.

Puh-ride. Puh-leeze

Oh. Right. Gay Pride Weekend. It is, of course, impossible to overlook in San Francisco, but It fails to stir me. Sorry. A huge parade of every possible sub-group known to queerkind. S&M lesbian-supporting vegan gay members of a co-opertive bike repair store will probably have their own float tomorrow. And I say yay, right on, etc., but I plan on skipping it once again.

The first year we lived year, I got involved in the Pride Committee, editing their magazine/program and was so thoroughly appalled by their petty, small mindedness, I fled, never to return. The old saw about "the smaller the stakes, the more vicious the politics" applies to these warped queens with a vengeance. I got to be one of the flag bearers at the front of the parade, (in front of the Dykes in Bikes, bitch) but even that was not enough to change my mind. I don't need a parade to be proud, I live a life that would need a tattoo that read "FAG" on my forehead to be any more out.

Instead, I'm staying home listening to music and playing solitaire. Even my music is gay. Here's a partial rundown of what I've heard tonight:

"Homosapien" by Pansy Division
"But Not for Me" by Judy Garland
"Dirty Back Road" by the B-52s
"The Crying Game" by Boy George
"Dancing with Tears in My Eyes" by Ultravox
"This Time Baby" the classic disco hit by Jackie Moore as re-interpreted by Lulu
"Dancing Queen" by the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus
and, of course, numerous tunes by the Pet Shop Boys.

As Lucullis Trajen (below) remarked when he brought in a tray of petit fours, "It doesn't get any gayer."

And Recipes, Too!

A flurry of emails between the divine Diane von Austinberg and me throughout the day (which I barely was able to squeeze in while working like a dog, slaving away, hardly able to look up from the grindstone, etc. etc. etc...) included the following from Diane:

speaking of food (as we so often do) here's my new favorite summer salad: corn, toasted walnuts, feta, olive oil, lime juice, with a little black pepper.

Doesn't that sound fabulous?

So now I've gone from Brazilian porn stars to Barbie dolls to recipes. To paraphrase Neil Patrick Harris:

This blog could not be gayer

if Liza was the mayor

and Elton John took flight.

The Gays and Their Girls

Riding back from lunch just now, I was sitting across the aisle from a classic fag-and-his-hag duo. Oh, it’s possible I was imagining things, that the young man was not the least bent, but I truly suspect the farthest down on the LGBTQI spectrum he could fall would be the Questioning bit. As for her, her role in life was well and truly cemented.

He was young and adorable, even his braces (!) seemed like flattering accessories. She was, uhm, not adorable. A little overweight, bad two-tone hair, “artistic” shoes and a too tight horizontal striped tee shirt. It’s actually the shirt that makes me wonder if the boy was all the way out. Surely anyone who has left the closet behind would have talked her out of such a mistake.

She was overly gregarious, laughing loudly and telling some complicated story that lasted from Church Street all the way downtown and which required lots of touching, constantly patting him on the arm or grabbing his knee. His contribution to the conversation seemed to be mostly sub-audible static.

I foresee all too clearly the future here. More hanging-out together that she construes as dates; a late night, teary proclamation (on one side or the other, or both); text messages ignored; and then a confrontation in a bar to be named at a later date.

Haven’t we all been there before?