In Which We Suffer Yet Another Birthday

 

There are times when I sit down to write my latest hilarious blog and I discover I have absolutely no idea about what to write. I turn to the mrpeenee Automatic Post Topic generator and all I get is static.  Goddamit.  Surely I can come up with something to complain about, but no, I get no traction.  And then I remember, fuck this. I cannot get fired, I am my own boss, I am the master of my fate.

But while sulking about my absolute lack of ideas, and how my blog is an utter task master, and how I really want to drag it behind the barn and shoot the mother fucker, I remembered that I had not celebrated mrpeenee's anniversary this year.  My blog's actual birthday is July 24, 2007 anno domini and every single year I am amazed to have passed yet another milestone (see "drag it behind the barn and shoot it.")

Nineteen years is an impressive record for someone with as little attention span as I have. When I started down this ridiculous path, I certainly had no idea I would stick around this long. My blog has outlived my husband, several cats, David Bowie, and frequently my will to write. If it weren't for the nekkid guys segment of each post I don't know how I would go on. 

Mike Betts, still my favorite nekkid guy.

Every year as part of my anniversary salute, I pause to remember fellow bloggers who started out about the same time as me.  There used to be a whole pack of us, but as blogging turned into a quaint novelty, almost all of them have dropped off. Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter, the Mistress from Mistress Borghese, and Inexplicable Device from Inexplicable Device, are the few, the happy few still sticking it out. Tough old birds all and I lift a glass to salute them. Some who didn't make it this far are actually no longer on this side of the grass (LX, Kabuki Zero) and others simply wandered off out of this land of make-believe (Jason, Mean Dirty Pirate, the Cool Cookie, Cafe Muscato, and the much missed Fabulon). Mitten Drinnen, aka Norma Desmond remains as a frequent commenter and Mistress Infomaniac is a ghostly, ghastly specter who only rises from her grave once a year on her blogiversary. Whether you're still here or not, I remember you all with great fondness.

So anyway here's to mrpeenee, the finest blog on this page.  Long may I wave.

And now back to our regularly scheduled nekkid guys:

I occasionally run across porn sites that focus on tickling. The whole idea never fails to strike me as incredibly unlikely. Here we have Italian side o' beef, Marco Pinotti getting the treatment.

I realize I don't give enough attention to the species known as daddies, so here is Alex Tikas.

Whachoo looking at?

 

He's got a package for you.

Surf's up

The warm weather has meant the action below my window on the sidewalk, always lively, has been particularly raucous, including some guy on Wednesday night about 11 o'clock playing the bagpipes.

He was pretty good, you know, for bagpipes, but the whole thing was so unlikely, I was very tempted to put on my pants and go downstairs and ask him "what the fuck?"

But a lifetime living in the big city reminded me to mind my own business.

I want to fuck this guy so bad it's sort of annoying.

I am Ashamed. Sort Of.

The ever urbane Muscato from Cafe Muscato describes an afternoon swanning about Vienna and then asks what the rest of us lesser mortals did lately for amusement.  I bought a suede coat and a pair of giant blue and white porcelain vases; got trapped in a clusterfuck of traffic because of this World Series thing here for an hour and a half and then leaned out of my car window and spat on a limo that was causing a bottleneck on the only escape route out of downtown San Francisco.

Even as I let loose, I wondered who on earth I had become.  I may have launched originally from Texas, but I've been a Lady for years now.  Nevertheless, the limo's passenger's look of horror was immensely gratifying.

I may have been watching a little too much American Horror Story lately.

mrpeenee, Vampire Koala

ohmygosh, you guys, it turns out I have morphed into a koala bear.  Koalas sleep more than 20 hours a day, just like me, and are adorable.  Ditto.

Random koala or mrpeenee?  You decide.

Tragically, most certainly not mrpeenee.

The only difference is that the bears get lots of fresh air, what with being relegated to the outdoors, and exercise from falling out of eucalyptus trees and I, on the other hand, refuse to leave the house.  I'm sort of a shut-in koala, existing on cinnamon rolls and chocolate milk.  THIS HAS GOT TO STOP.  Mostly because I just finished off the last of the cinnamon rolls.

Also, I'm not sure how most koalas feel about mormon boy porn, but I am still all for it.

Super Seven

What do you mean it's August?  The hell?   How do these things happen?

It's true I've been rather distracted lately by hosting guests for their own wedding and visiting New Orleans on a retail spree and competing with the cats to see who can sleep the most in one day, but that doesn't excuse missing two important (to me, and who else counts?) anniversaries in July.

The first was Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat's birthday, his seventh, on July 7.  Yes, 7/7/07 and now it's number seven, so maybe this year will be lucky for him.  Having ripped up both white leather chairs in the living room, he is now turning his attention to converting the back guest room into a spare cat box, so he's probably going to need all the luck he can get if I catch him pooping in there one more time.

And my blog, this title piece of heaven, also turned seven a few days ago, but again, I was sleeping, so, oops.  In case you wondering, here is the first post, from all those long years ago:

But who is mrpeenee?
I’m a nice guy, that’s who. I hide it successfully under a mask of brittle bitterness, but I would be happy to save orphan kittys and old ladies from burning buildings if I just weren’t so darn busy downloading porn and staring out the window. My long suffering lover, R Man, and I live in San Francisco where I work for the federal government making wildly inaccurate statements to the press and running the training program for entrepreneurs for the SBA here. I am occasionally surprised to realize how respectable I am.

I grew up in Texas, but never understood what white trash I am until I left. How was I supposed to know nice people didn’t put mayonnaise on their French fries?

I gotta go.

So seven years later and all I've learned is how to include photos of muscly young men.  Hmm.

6

So this is mrpeenee's sixth birthday.  I have no idea how these things happen.

I originally started this whole thing only because I wanted to comment more easily on Thombeau's long gone and most lamented Fabulon and at the time, Blogger made it easier to sign in if you had your own blog.  I still miss Fabulon.

Anyway, after that things just sort of got out of hand.  I certainly never imagined I'd make friends here, connections that would be a great comfort during those dark times around  R Man's death.  It helped a lot.

And now I have people I've never physically met who have opinions about my sex life and decorating and cat (appropriately, I'm typing this without my right thumb because of a big ol' gash on it from Saki. I swear I am sending him back to Cat Jail.)  And commenters.  I love comments.

And muscle pussy. 

In six years, I have outlasted that pissy queen who used to just post comments so he (or she) could deride my grammar.  I would like to point out Diane von Austinburg is a professional editor and if she can suck up my fondness for gerunds and erratic punctuation, I think everybody else should too.

I have stuck it out through the creepy infatuation of my stalker who used to post coyly and too-affectionate notes and tried to pick comment fights with bloggers I actually admired like Mitzi and Mean Dirty Pirate.  Of all the nerve! I actually turned to MJ from Infomaniac about him (which should tell you how unnerved by him I was) and her advice to ignore him and he would eventually go away was quite right.

Lots of muscle pussy.

We have all lasted long enough for the return of Cafe Muscato, which is most appreciated.

Also, through the magic of bloglandia, I have been able to dragoon Ask the Cool Cookie into helping with Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore and a big thank you to him for that.

Blogs.  They're handier than you might think.

Lots and lots of Muscle Pussy

Get Jiggy Wid It

I've been more distracted than usual lately because I stumbled on a web site that allows you to create and solve your own jigsaw puzzles.  It's caused me to not only dig back through all my masterpieces stored on iPhoto, but to actually scan in older pictures as well.  I've found putting the puzzle together forces me to dwell more thoroughly on the picture than just flipping through a stack of them.  Like Georgia O'Keeffe said "to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”   I had to Google that quote, I certainly couldn't remember it accurately.  For that matter, spelling her last name threw me.

So anyway, I've been "publishing" these puzzles so I could solve them (I found out later you don't have to make them public.  Like I care) and now other people are working them.  Doesn't that seem odd?  Like volunteering to watch other people's vacation slides?

You know what the most popular one is?

mrpeenee and R Man walking down Dauphine Street in the French Quarter some long gone Southern Decadence.  What?  These guys have never seen a man in lady's underwear?

And while prowling through all these vanished days with R Man is plenty poignant, there's also lots of regret about wardrobes that have evolved into the past tense.  "Man, I loved that tee shirt" comes up frequently.

I take as a given the cause of all their demises were grease drips down the front that no laundering would ever get out.  I'm a slob.  But my jigsaw working is really improving.

To Live and Die and Have a Birthday In LA

I know some people, when celebrating their birthday with a trip, will go for a vigorous hike in the Cascades, or trek to Bhuthan to meditate with the monks.   Last week for my birthday (and sincere thanks to everybody who wished me a happy one, and all the rest of you miscreants also,) I went down to Los Angeles for a manicure.

It was well and truly the greatest manicure I've ever had.  The salon Secret Agent Fred and I went to had the severe white hush of a chic research lab and we each had a room all to ourselves so the technician could truly concentrate on our cuticles.

Also, tiny little fur brushes to whisk away the detritus from the emory board.  Dazzling.

Also quite charming was the always beautiful LA weather and lots of cute guys.

We were staying in a small hotel I quite like and which pretends to have a bar.  You sit down at a table, a server appears eventually, takes your order and then disappears.   One supposes they're mixing drinks back in the laundry room.  I ordered a Lemon Drop because I am a Lady, I do Lady Things and it was served as a martini glass filled with Citron vodka.  That was it, no mixer, nothing, just liquor.  Turned out to go with my vicodin perfectly well.

And really great Mexican food, my favorite cuisine.  Why San Francisco is so lacking in it is a constant source of pain to me.

My favorite coffee place in the universe is a small San Francisco chain called Peet's.  I was so glad to find one near our hotel and even more delighted to see they have valet parking.  It's L.A. baby.

Thanks again to everyone for your birthday wishes, all of which came true.  It was a plenty Happy one.

This Just In:

mrpeenee is just the teensiest bit drunk.  We went out tonight with friends to see the one man show of Leslie Jordan, who is, as a side note, like mrpeenee also a 57 year old big sissy from the South, so a lot of his stories resonated, except for the ones about doing speed fueled drag as a teenager.   Still, it was pretty amusing.

The show required a two-drink-minimum, so I had a couple of Cosmos, because I am a Lady, and they were tasty, tasty, tasty, but STRONG.  So I'm a little drunk.

Back in the day, mrpeeenee was a Big Mess.  A Big Drunk Mess.  As loaded as I am at this moment was merely a brief stop on the Big Drunk Mess Line; it was the I Think I'll Have Another Pitcher of Margaritas stop.  So very much not happy times.  Let me just say how very glad I am to no longer be on that sloppy train.  Plus typing is hard when ones fingers seem slightly unconnected.

Instead, muscle pussy:

Well, That's Five Years We'll Never Get Back

I know I was supposed to be putting up a post all about my blog birthday (Happy Five to me, bitches!) but I’ve been distracted by eating nectarines, cause it’s July and you need to roll with them while you got ‘em, am I right?  But finally the one I had this afternoon delivered the tender and tart deliciousness of a door knob, so I realized it’s time to move on.

So with that, let’s raise the curtain on

mrpeenee’s Fifth Anniversary Dragapalooza: Cinco or Swim!

Star of stars, mrpeenee will be hosting as that darling of the oppressed 99.9%, Pepper Spray.  I will, of course, be performing my signature number Police on My Back.  I know I probably shouldn’t be setting the bar so high at my own party, but with talent like mine, what can I do?

Here’s a publicity still from latest picture, Gidget Occupies Malibu.  Maybe hasn’t opened in  whatever unimportant cow town you’re reading this in, but when you get the chance to buy it (not rent or pirate, you cheap bitch) I’m sure you’ll be dazzled by my work.

Our cast this evening is all the vixens and viragos of mrpeenee’s frequent commentors and what a mixed bag (so to speak) those lazy cows are:

Clutter from the Gutter’s own Mitzi offers up (“with a shy giggle that sounds like a cascade of silver bells my entry for your jubilee, and long may you reign!”)

 Petula Plenty was  just a common prostitute in Piccadilly, London, before making it big as a Shirley Bassey impersonator. The streets weren’t paying enough, and the draft up her skirt brought her out in a terrible rash, and the anitbiotics weren’t working, so in 1995 she got up on the stage at The Vauxhall Tavern in London, dressed as a magician’s moll and sang her little heart out. The audience loved her. 

The rest, as they say, is history. Her incredible debut album ‘Tits On Fire’  won her four Brits and countless other awards, she even knocked Madonna off the number 1 spot in several countries world wide.

Songs on the album include: Simply The Breast -  by Tina Turner;  Knocker Three Times - by Dawn;  Mammary Mia - By Abba;  Radio Bra Bra - by Queen;  Always On My Tits - by Elvis plus many many more.

Petula Plenty facts: Chris Rea couldn’t afford the real Shirley Bassey for his 1996 film soundtrack La Passione so he used Petula Plenty instead.
Affectionately known as  ‘Pet’ gay men worship her, believing her to have supernatural powers.

Mitzi gets her own dressing room, because she is a star and not because everyone else is afraid of what may be hiding in her bag.  Or not only.

Designing Wally reveals

My drag name: Kit Encaboodle...

My song for you:  Missing Persons- I Like boys:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mlI-xhIilUU

xoxox, Gary

PSsst!  Boys like me, too....

What, you mean boys as opposed to possums?  Darling Wally can be so obscure sometimes, you know?

Blogging Sinsation Jason, from Night is Half Gone, wants us to know

 here’s my inner temptress...well, one of them: Miss Vaseline McCooter

I’m planning to bring a positive, affirming message to this contest, unlike these other trifling bitches. 

And of course, I’ll be singing Shirley Brown’s classic Woman to Woman

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZssL3nr6JZg&feature=fvwrel 

Because cooterhood is powerful. And so is that mop Jason is working.

NormaDesmond arrives late, as is appropriate for a Big Star (also cause the bitch didn't send anything in, so I made this up for her.  As I told the old thing "NORMA FUCKING DESMOND needs to be in this show."  Anyone disagree?  Shut up and sit back down.)

Norma will be playing Gloria Swanson playing Norma playing a washed up silent star playing that paragon of glamour and crazy: Norma Desmond.  I think I got lost somewhere in there, but so did she and at least I'm not burying a monkey in the back yard.  Norma considered and discarded all the sad, sad songs from that big mess Sunset Boulevard, the Musical and instead will be selling her famous one-woman duet - Crazy by Patsy Cline, and Crazy by Gnarls Barkley, and Crazy by Seal after which mrpeenee will shoot her with a tranquilizer dart gun.  It's a big number.

Another late entry is our most beloved Muscato, rising from her hospital bed to assay her alter ego, legendary Finnish diva Mme. Watta-Setta Nakkers, with her internationally acclaimed rendition of the beloved "Flower Duet" from Lakmé, in which she plays the musical saw for the mezzo line. 
As an encore, she and her trusty metal pal tackle "Nowadays" from Chicago (her tap break will take your breath away. Literally). 

So good of dear Muscaato to bring a bit of elegance to this tawdry evening.  She has such tone, don't you think?

Mistress Borghese flies in with

Now honey, rest assure, us bitches will come through, it is just tough to get the damn lead out!!!! Now for my photo selection, I'll use my own drag name the Mistress Borghese, and my own drag persona. As I tend to be quite the temptress, in one of my favorite impresontations of the fabulous Carmen Miranda. For my number I’ll do a lively rendition of the stunning and lavish performance to  CHICA CHICA BOOM CHIC!  I just hope I can keep all my orbs from falling out this time! 

I’m sure all of us are relieved to read that the dear Mistress is the sumptuous fruit bowl and not the undead sea hag lurking in the corner.  One just never knows. 

Jon (aka Dolores Delargo Towers) provides us with an interpretive art piece of his dragness

for a better look: 


http://s170.photobucket.com/albums/u259/mouse_m/?action=view&current=FatSlags.jpg

He continues: A “drag name” I came up with many moons ago - I would have to be Pyroclastic Flo!

And the song? Samy K feat. Diva Avari - Fucking Bitch, of course

 (ed. note: Darlings, you need to go see this.  it's summin.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4NZV9ZLRSM

I look forward to the show!!

How sweet, dear.  I do, too, if I can ever get through this goddam cut and paste marathon.

The always elusive  (I just typed that as “ewlisive,” but that was a mistake.  Honest) Anonymous,too let’s us know 

Yup, my inner drag queen goes beyond fierce, right through ferocious, to downright dangerous.  I think the drag name would have to be Annie Muss.  The song?  The Rolling Stones’ “Bitch”, or maybe Sir Elton’s “The Bitch is Back.”

Did you think to have Trekkiedrag on the stage?  Pretty certainly not, but that’s the beauty of Cinco or Swim: something for everyone.  And somethings for no one.

Ask the Cool Cookie, god love her, interrupts a transcontinental move to send us this

Here’s how I see myself on stage :  Miss Gypsy Rose Lee, being coy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m9kd_nD1mA

 And I would be fucking FABULOUS, and family friendly.

Yes dear, whatever you say.  In a scary sort of way.

Our Bold Soul Sister, Ms FirstNations, assures us she will take the stage as  “Yomama BinLoggin” and will wow whatever audience still remains with Aretha Franklin’s Respect 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FOUqQt3Kg0&feature=related

Do you ever find Ms FirstNations the teensiest. tiniest bit scary?  Like maybe you'd go out for a quick drink with her and wake up in some trailer park in another state in a tub of ice?  Yeah, me too.  And I say that in the most loving manner possible.  Don't hurt me.

Our most beloved Thombeau of Planet Fabulon, the Redundant Variety Hour and points west will be pitching cleanup and sassily claims:

“Here I am as Trampe L’Oeil, international temptress. No lip-sync for moi! Basically all I do is the can-can until I become dizzy and collapse into a sweaty, drunken heap, babbling incoherently. Works every time! Of course, I rarely do drag anymore, but can often be found flouncing around the rest home, as is my way...”

  

Anyone surprised should raise their hand now.  No one?  No, I thought not.

And with that we’ll be ringing down the curtains, wild acclaim showering down on us all as we scrabble madly for whatever stray pharmas we can dig out of Thombeau’s bag.  Cause it’s not just mrpeenee’s drag show.  It’s my goddam party.

Tick. Tock

I went to dinner tonight with our old friends Karen and Randy for some wonderfully tasty Italian food. Karen is the kind of charmer to whom everyone with a pulse is drawn; the hostess, bartenders, waiters , kitchen staff and owners were all fawning over her like she had been their prom date some magical long gone evening. It was very amusing and gratifying to trail along in her majestic wake.

It was also sweet of them to put up with me being late, again. I got ready plenty early, started reading and looking at the internet and pondering profound thoughts and suddenly the Late Fairy was working her magic.

It's always the same, I start out thinking "I'm going to need to go in a while" and suddenly switch over to "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm going to be late. Again." I seem to have some kind of chronological blind spot that allows the "Time to go" sweet spot to slide right past me. It was one of the few things that annoyed the ever sweet R Man. We wound up having plenty of discussions that involved the word "dawdling" as we were scrambling to get to whatever appointment I had made us late for. Again.

Alarms, schedules, nagging boyfriends: none of them work. It's like I see the time coming, fully prepared to get up and go, but at the neccessary point I am, instead, wondering about Barbie dolls or tacos or string theory or something and then, oops, late. Again.

Fun with Blogs

Those of you who dropped by over the last few days may have noticed I went all crazy and stuff and replaced the tasteful background I had been using here with one that was a picture of me and R Man that had been run through a warholizer.

I decided it had to go cause it was giving me a headache, but by then I had lost the picture of the fern frond and since I was too lazy to go all the way out in the yard and take another one, we are now featuring our lovely, lovely Datura Brugmansia. Revel in it, because I am also too lazy to change it for a while.

That's just how it goes in Gaylandia. Leave a mo to his own devices long enough and redecorating is bound to happen.

Dreamy Dreams

It's 6:50 in the morning and I'm up to write about my dream I just had.

It was set in a laundromat, the shabby kind that has mismatched equipment. Some friends and I were in this town for its film festival because they wanted to get the film they had made in the festival. Slowly, I came to realize the film their kids had put together was better and was actually going to make it and theirs wasn't and heartache lay ahead.

Also, some cute guy was there and took all his clothes off to wash them. This really happened in a New Orleans once while I was dong my laundry and the cops took him away even though he kept protesting his pants were wet. Nothing so untoward happened in my dream so I was able to chat up the cute guy. Now that I remember it he was wearing bright blue underwear.

There was tension that one of the few working dryers was going to be available before my friends' load had finished washing. An evil gypsy-looking guy was eyeing it. I found out another dryer that was marked Out of Order really worked if you leaned against the door to keep it closed. We told the kids that was going to be thier job and they weren't feeling it, but isn't that why you have children?

Because I wasn't washing clothes and had a bunch of quarters , I was very popular. Then my friends started telling me I should only give them my quarters. I started singing You Don't Own Me and everyone in the place joined in. Except, maybe the evil gypsy guy. Definitely the cute underwear guy

I can now fit youtube videos here in mrpeenee cause Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter told me how. Yay for Mitzi.

Domino Porn

I am such a nerd, such a gormless nerd, I truly find this thrilling.

Something to give my life meaning.

My Day. A Diary of Sorts

Friday, May the Whatever Friday Was-th,

San Francisco,

11:30: I arise. The cat is pleased since he has been agitating for this for two hours. I make my bed because I am tidy and because sometimes the effort of pulling the blankets back down is all that prevents me from climbing back in.

11:35 I put in my contacts, each in the correct eye on the first try. Score! Saki helps.

11:50: I stand blankly out on the patio wondering what I'm doing there. I decide to water the plants so I can look like I know what I'm doing.

11:53 I discover the withered up thyme has come back from the dead. I shall name it Jeezuz. Or maybe Midge.

12:15: I go down to the Castro to mail something. I can now definitively report, as a retired old fart, the rumor that going to the post office is an old guys' high point of the day is true. Unless I find something good on internet Pornland.

12:17 I wander through the Castro thinking about porn.

12:20 Coffee at Peets, which may beat out porn.

12:30 San Francisco has created a charming small park by blocking off a little-used street with flatbeds holding attractive water jars filled with olive trees and flax. Locally, it's known as "Naked Guy Park" because of the smallish gang of nudists who hang out there every day. Interviews in the local press with them reveal about half of them come from little towns over in the East Bay. They are commuting nudists. They all wear hats, which I think is very odd. If you're going to be sitting around airing your bits, why are you worried about getting a sunburn on your head?

12:40 I return home to take a nap.