In Which We Are Carolled

I was so close.  For the last couple of years I have celebrated making it all the way to Christmas without being subjected to any Christmas music.  I know being so hostile to the mewling tunes of this joyful season makes me an easy target for people wanting to call me a misanthropic grinch.  Fuck that.  It's only that I am willing to say out loud what  everyone else is thinking.

This year seemed to be shaping up for yet another Xmas uninfested by Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer and the like.  Since I pretty much go nowhere except my bathroom and Peet's Cafe (and they have totally gotten on board the no Christmas music train) I felt safe, foolishly safe.  I would just slide through what Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, calls the festering season without my ears being punished.  

And then I had to go see my doctor.  What was waiting for me there?  Guess.  I opened their door and was confronted with Andy Williams, Perry Como, and Nat King Cole crooning fucking carols. And not just any carols, but the insipid, saccharin version.

Ugh, this is already been a difficult year.  I should have known.

Guys to soothe your holiday battered earholes:

Jean Franko, still in the wrapping, sort of.

I finally found out the name of this guy and his angelic backside, please give a warm peenee welcome to Alfred Herrera

Here we have the seasonal stylings of Jack Harrer, another one of those Bel Ami sluts.

My friends and others who enjoy low humor used to call this pose The Landing Pad.

Some anonymous, but humpy strumpet.

I know it's been a long year.  Lay down and take it easy for a while.

In Which We Take Another Walk

 

I am in the throes of insomnia these days, the very throes, I tell you.  The other morning, after lying in bed for 4 hours, I finally surrendered and admitted I was not going to be able to force myself to sleep.  So I went out for a little walk with my destination pegged as a cafe called the Patisserie Viennoiserrie, a name so pretentious it makes my teeth hurt.  Much like my visit to the doctor last week, I decided to take you all along with me by photographs.  Here we go on mrpeenee Goes to the Cafe.

This is the courtyard of our building, lush and quiet and green.  The trees are birches and the small shrubs are foxtail fern.

I cut down a little alley behind us I like this house very much, so crisply white and sort of pissy.  In a good way.

These three are all part of a charming flower bed that wanders down the sidewalk in front of a real estate company. I love that red hollyhock.

Another flower bed along another sidewalk is this one behind the middle school for our neighborhood. The kids grow squash and sweet peas and other random vegetables.  They else have this stunning red amaranth in the bottom photo.

To show San Francisco's not all preciously cutie pie, there's this abomination of an apartment building that is a block long and half a block deep, huge, weird and ugly.

Then there's this charmingly odd place right across the alley from the big ugly joint which demonstrates what they probably tore down for the abomination.  

Decorating some ugly little wall because we're GAY.

So I got to the cafe (and I don't understand why someplace called the Viennese is decorated with French froufrou) and I discovered it is not only pretentious but crowded and that's when I remembered I don't really like it.

So instead I went over to a quiet, charming little place I like only a block away and had breakfast outside on their patio. Yay.

Pretty weeds.

This is the front of the middle school with the flower beds in the back.  Isn't it cool?  High art Deco.  The middle school I went to was constructed of worn down red bricks with plaster cow skulls as architectural decoration. I'm not making that up.  It was a thing in Texas in the 1920s.  I originally wrote that as just "the 20s" and then remembered that we are in the 20s RIGHT NOW.

Hard to tell but the sign says "Liquor." It's the little bodega directly behind my building which has come to my rescue more than once when I'm suddenly short an ingredient. I figure if they don't have it, I don't need to be eating it.

Also super agent Fred referred to a little corner store as a bodega and whomever he was speaking to took exception to the word and told him he was racist for using it.  What?  English is stuffed full of Spanish words we borrowed because they're handy.  Fatheads, they're everywhere.

And that concludes a walk in mrpeenee's very large shoes.  I hope you enjoyed it.

This charming picture was sent to me by one of my commenters, I appreciate his generosity.

Is he trying to figure out the big words?  Poor dear.

It has suddenly gotten warm in San Francisco after an unusually cool summer.  Following on the heels of a few very hot days spent in Houston, I am not amused.

For once, lounging poolside seems very appealing.

Because along with poles and holes, I am also fond of tits.

Naked guys in sling shots are going to be the very next craze.  You heard it here first.

But extra large booty will always be in style.

So meaty, so coy.

Artsy, but not fartsy.

he's just pretending to be surly, I'm sure he's a very sweet boy in reality. Some reality, anyway.

The luscious Santiago, courtesy of Lucas Kazan.

Lastly, Saint Henry of Caville, once again refusing his destiny of Born to Porn.

In Which We Err on the Side of Bad Air

 

Monday night I made hummus for dinner, and it was fabulous, let me tell you.  Hummus is a paste made from chickpeas (which I don't like cause they are chalky as licking a dirty blackboard so I use cannellini beans instead) with lemon juice (I substituted lime juice because that's what I had) and tahini which is like peanut butter, but made with sesame seeds.  I did not substitute for that because I'm very fond of tahini.  Still I suppose it was basically a dish inspired by hummus.

Anyway then you dump all that in a food processor and let her rip.  You wind up with something smooth and beige, sort of a bean pudding.  I slather it on multigrain bread and wolf it down. Mmmmm.  Problem is shortly after shoveling it in my pie hole, my other hole chimes in.  Yes, the social grief of flatulence.  My digestion seems to be working like a steam engine since it doesn't take any time for the gales to start blowing.  One minute I'm lying quietly in bed and the next thing I know the sheets are rippling in the breeze.  Oh dear.

It's bad enough when I can keep all this gassy tempest to myself, but I had an appointment with my chiropractor the next day.  Chiropractic adjustments take place with you face down, with your cheese trumpet pointing up directly towards the good doctor.  I couldn't risk tooting right in his face, so I rescheduled, barely able to shout over the typhoon to leave him a voicemail.

Then today, just after all the gassy trauma had settled down, wildfire smoke blew into San Francisco.  We have had an amazing summer with no smoke at all which is almost unprecedented.  I just last week was telling someone what a relief it was to not choke on the air.  I suppose this is my payback for being for presumptuous.

Every breath today has been just a little more difficult than the one before with the breezes having a distinctly barbecue-y smell to them. My eyes itch and my throat feels like I've been gargling with charcoal.  I shut the windows and broke out my air purifier (which I should have used earlier after setting it on "cheese cutting".) It didn't seem terribly effective; I mentioned last year that its indicator is a little light show that shifts from red through purple to blue to show the quality of the air it's putting out, sort of like a mood ring. All afternoon it's been a sullen red, and once it finally turned blue (which is what you want) I went out into the kitchen and noticed the air there was not in the least bit worse.  Bamboozled by technology again.

Men whose beauty is like a cool breeze:

The charming Francisco Dominguez, co-starring his big, fat cock.

A farewell to summer.  We have featured this youth before, but I always find his ridiculous tan so amusing.

What a balancing feat.

Thomas Salek.  I think he's dreamy.

Ready for action.

I just have a weakness for guys with glasses and muscles.

Meaty, beaty, big, and bouncy.

I forget this guy's name.  Sorry.

It's almost fall, time to say adieu to tanlines.