In Which We Live It Up

Back when I was a good deal younger than I am now, leading the fabulous existence of an '80s queer in New Orleans, I remember thinking occasionally what a quiet, restrained life I had.  Looking back on it, I must have been out of my mind, more so even than usual.  Those were the days when I'd go out to queer bars and bath houses pretty much every single night whooping it up, listening to loud music and chasing dick. Now if I have a haircut and a doctor's appointment both in the same week, I am laid low for days. 

I was considering all that this last weekend.  Diane von Austinburg was in town and we made a day of it.  We met up with our friend Hotfoot to go check out a charming new little museum with a very interesting couple of exhibits.  It wasn't crowded and the space is a dynamite use of an old bank downtown.  We dug it.

After we had had our fill of being cultured, we headed for a bar, because what else do you do late on a Sunday afternoon?  Hotfoot's husband Drumstick joined us there and after a couple of drinks we adjourned for sushi.  Diane and Hotfoot both said it was excellent.  Drumstick and I both agree sushi is nothing but overpriced cat food and we refuse it.   Still, it was a very nice dinner hanging out with old friends. 

But wait, there's more! After dinner we came back to my place and played Yahtzee like the wild dogs we are.  They all polished off a few bottles of wine and even though I was the only one not drinking, I was also the only one to not win a game.  I was so annoyed, I briefly considered cheating, since they were all so wasted by then they wouldn't have known, but even I have my limits.  Everyone had completely conflicting demands about what music I should be playing.

The whole underpinning for the evening was a celebration of Super Agent Fred's birthday.  We toasted to him, and we told stories about him, and we all got a little teary-eyed occasionally.  It was very reminiscent of evenings gone by when we would explore bars all over town, the sushi place was one of Fred's favorite spots, and a Yahtzee tournament was a tradition of ours.  It was a good time and times like that help say goodbye.

Speaking of Super Agent Fred, I have been able to make progress (finally) on the website where I will be offering up his art.  I know I have been really slow getting a handle on all this, but I am able to think I should have something soon.  

You know what else Fred was very fond of?  Naked men:

Fred was very fond of the species known as "daddy".

A cowboy for my niece Amber, who appreciates beef.

 

And buttchops for me.

Speaking of buttchops, someone would seem to have been a naughty little puss.

I've mentioned before how I love big boys with that dumb look on their sweet face.

I can never remember this guy's name.  If anyone knows it, please share with the class.

Surly, but so darn beautiful.

In Which We Go To A Funeral

We had secret agent Fred's funeral on Saturday on the rooftop deck of my building.  It was sad.  A huge fog bank blew in so it was windy and gray and cold; the very definition of funereal. 

I had been scrambling to get Fred's apartment cleaned out and simultaneously organizing the service.  I was tired and anxious and busy suppressing my emotions, cause that's an important part of being a white boy, and I wound up yelling at my good friend Drumstick.  Oh dear.  Even after apologizing profusely I still felt bad.  At the best of times, I don't have a really strong grip on my temper, and this was definitely not the best of times. 

A big part of the problem was, of course, relatives.  Fred's sister and cousin were in town for the festivities and wound up grating on my nerves.  Both are perfectly nice women under normal circumstances, but they were reacting to their grief.  His sister kept offering to help, but then wouldn't do anything I asked her to.  Plus, she snubbed Diane von Austinburg, making clear that she thought Diane was being presumptive even after I explained how much help Diane has been. Totally Mean Girl.  And the cousin was one of those people who lives to show how very sensitive they are, to the point of making her grief sort of performative. 

Sort of like this.

My favorite part was the art show we put on by pulling out Fred 's paintings and canvases so people could appreciate them. Our friends took a lot of them, but there are still plenty left.  I will be creating a website to make the remainders available.  Watch for more details about how you two can have your very own Secret Agent Fred art. 

Anyway, I am refraining from any more complaints.  It was a long, long day, and I'm glad it's over.  I'm also glad I'm all through cleaning out the apartment.  I woke up the day after I finished and realized I didn't have anything to do and was so immensely relieved.

When you're planning my funeral, here are some suggestions for pallbearers and memorial Go-Go boys: 

Curvy

Speaking of white boys.

Do not get poop stains on my good white couch.

Plein aire.

Sometimes bleach blonde frost 'n tips are the way to go.

In Which We Invade Hollywood

 

Secret Agent Fred and I have journeyed down south to Los Angeles.  Leaving San Francisco is not something I ever consider lightly, but Fred has started yet another round of chemo and was looking for a distraction.  

We were scheduled to hit the road at noon, so I set my alarm for last minute o'clock.  It startled me when it went off and I thought "What the hell is THAT?  Do I have something to do today?" Fortunately, before I could roll over and fall back asleep, I remembered our travel plans.  Oh, mrpeenee, you are just a card 

The airport was exactly what it always is: frantically rushing to squeeze through the most stressful part of the trip immediately followed by sitting around being bored, with a $6 bag of Skittles.

We are snuggled in at a sweet little hotel I like in West Hollywood, the gay ghetto of LA. At one time, Fred and I would have been out terrorizing the queer bars, but now we have settled for ice cream from room service.

Plans are vague (what a surprise for the two of us) except to hang out with friends who have the questionable taste to live here.  Fred and I made some cheap talk about museum visiting. We'll see.

Also, every time I type something that starts with a "t" my auto correct immediately jumps to the conclusion that I am writing about tacos.  I will take that as a sign and plan on Mexican food while we're here.  As if that is a surprise.

Fellow travelers:

Brandy Martignago, looking all SoCal.

The extra beefy buttchops of Buck Hayes.

Gianluigi Volti before his regrettable clown tats.

Anonymous, but artsy, ass.

Daniele Montana looking extra pretty just for you.

Atheleisure is yet another made up word of which I do not approve. 

In Which mrpeenee Returns

Cause mrpeenee likes to be stylin' when he's suffering through airport purgatory.

People of Earth, I know what very few posts I am able to scratch up here have lately turned into two flavors:

• I'm going to New Orleans
• I just got back from New Orleans.

This time I just skipped the "I'm going to New Orleans" part and I'm here to report I'm back.  Surely you missed me.  And was the old place charming as ever?  Why yes, yes it was.  Thanks for asking.  I had a great deal (possibly excessive) of deliciousness, including duck gumbo at a fancy place and shrimp remoulade at a decidedly not fancy place dear to my evil little heart.

I also got to hang out in a bar called Lafitte's for their Tired Old Disco Night with Jason from Night is Half Gone.  Too fabulous, I only wish you could have been there.  The old darling really is charming, you know.  He assures us all the miscreants he teaches are wild for Beowulf this semester.  I'm skeptical, but he swears it.

He and I are were able to impress Secret Agent Fred with our in-depth knowledge of the song One Night in Bangkok.  I thought everyone knew it was from some odd Broadway musical named Chess about a real chess tournament held, logically, in Bangkok and written by the ABBA guys.  Didn't you?

Fred brought along his boyfriend (yes, it's true, he's off the market.  Sorry.) who's very fond of a snort or two so when Fred got bored standing around my house there watching me enthuse over drywall installation, I could send them off for drinkies and everyone was happy.

I particularly was happy because, at long last, drywall has been hung and you can now actually see the shape and size of the rooms.  Big, big yay.

before

After, with the new exterior paint and the dumpster box out front which has apparently become a neighborhood fixture.

The back rooms before all the walls were ripped out to make one huge ass room.

  

Huge ass room

Huge ass ceiling of huge ass room.  And get off that beam, I paid too much for you to use it as a catwalk.

Oh, It's a Perfect Day

Secret Agent Fred and I stumbled in to a little place we know for dinner tonight and while we were tucking in, a wheezy three piece combo in the room next door struck up.  I was willing to ignore them until I realized they were covering (or attempting to do so) Pink Floyd's Money.

From there on, it was just down hill, of course.  A Beatle's medley; something Fred claimed was from The Smiths (for which I took his word, since I hate all things Morrisey;) and finally the smooth jazz sound of Perfect Day.

I like Perfect Day very much, the mismatch between the song's cheery bubble of lalalalala and Lou Reed's kind of atonal drone.  I have always assumed it was something of a sneer on his part against the very sunny type of music it parodies so spot on.  And yet, it also seems to be his sincere appreciation of what a perfect day is: simple, unstructured but full, happy.  With you.

So to then hear it ground out by the very kind of band the underlying mockery is aiming at was not just ironic, but thought provoking.  Three hacks plodding through their set, stuck in a barful of people who wouldn't pay them any attention if their combined hair (which wasn't much) was on fire.  Did the band get the joke?  Is that why they were playing it?  Or had some snarky hipster requested it and then gone off to snicker at his musical wit.

You know there's that old joke that not that many people bought the Velvet Underground's music, but they all went right out and started their own band.  Maybe that's the drummer's story and he insisted on including it.  Maybe it's one twelve songs the keyboardist knows.  There are many possibilities.

Then when I was looking for a video to illustrate this post, I ran across this promo one from the BBC in 1997.  Again, it largely seems to miss out on the sarcasm I've always heard in the song, so maybe I'm just imagining it, bitter old queen that I am.  Still, that's my story and I'm sticking with it.

The cast is certainly star-studded.  Of course, Bono makes an appearance.  Is there  ever one of these kind of things he misses out on?  But also, David Bowie, in an earring that, were he not a Big Star or if he had had a friend on hand, surely he would have been talked out of.

Also, (look quick or you'll miss them) Suzanne Vega, Doctor John (!), Emmylou Harris, sounding swell, and Tom Jones, who is not identified.  Did the BBC assume everyone would know who he is?  Maybe they were right.  Not to mention, Mrs. Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson, pixie-ish as ever.

I hope you enjoy it.  Try not to get stuck on Bowie's ear-bob.

Cats and Muscle Porn; It's a Gay Life

When Secret Agent Fred dumped his fatuous boyfriend a few years ago, he asked if he could stash his terribly sweet, ancient cat, Asizzi, with me since Fred was renting his apartment out on Air BnB and somehow the listing of "affectionate cat" under the amenities was not working.  It was fine with me, I like Asizzi (I should mention, veterinarian offices are universally unable to handle his name and kept calling Fred up to the counter as "A Sissy."  Oddly accurate, but sort of confusing, so the cat's name has morphed into Steve.)

So Steve has been a resident here for all this time and Saki still has not warmed to it.  To keep them separate, Steve stays in R Man's old room, which sounds cramped, but since it's about the size of Fred's studio apartment, he doesn't seem to mind it, but occasionally will make a break for it.  Fred has been holed up in his own apartment slinging his excellent calligraphy for the tons of wedding invitations that are his bread and butter this time of year.  Exasperated at Steve getting out yet again (he is fast for an old codger) I decided to see how the two cats would get along.

Turns out much better than before.  They're sort of tense, stiff legged around each other, but a real minimum of hissing and no actual fights.  The amazing part is that Steve, America's Sweetheart, tends  to be the instigator of any rumpus.  He will occasionally let loose this prolonged low growl and tentatively poke his paw towards Saki who hunkers down looking baffled like "What is with you old man?"  Of course, Steve is so senile it's possible he thinks he's imitating a can opener.  There's no telling.

Also, having Fred out of the house means not just cat acclimation, but Porn Festival!  Not that having the old dear around really cramps my style much since we have separate bedrooms, but still, having the house all to myself is so poignantly reminiscent of being 14 and trying to rub one out before mom gets home from the store.  Whee!

Scrutiny of several new sites as well as some old faves has resulted in a conundrum.  A performer dear to my heart and my right hand has popped up on two sites and I can't decide which version I prefer.  So let's vote, shall we?

First, Gianluigi from Men at Play

 So very distinguished and distinctive, don't you think?


And then a sleeker version from MuscleHunks

Typically I would always go for the fur bearing beast thang, but I have to say, the MuscleHunk scene wherein dear little Gian his spanking his personal monkey and his giant shaved and waxed man tits are rocking gently back and forth is pretty darn mesmerizing.

And those lips.

I think I have to go do some more research.

Free to a Good Home, One Secret Agent

Sister Mary Legs in the Air, Magda and me at the sketchy remains of my house in New Orleans, largely held together by blue tape.

Had I known what lay ahead of me just a few short hours later, I would have taken the chance to bury Fred in the backyard, dead or not.

The scene: mrpeene's tasteful French Quarter hotel room, 4:30 AM as he bustles about, preparing to depart for San Francisco, becoming increasingly edgy as his calls to Secret Agent Fred go into voicemail, an exercise with Fred which is absolutely pointless.  One might as well write notes, seal them in old bourbon bottles and throw them in the Mississippi.

Finally, short lived relief as Fred calls in..  Short-lived because Fred's contribution is nothing short of gibberish.  I could swear the phrase "argle bargle" is mixed in with the rest.

mrpeenee: "Queen, where are you, I know you are not packed, the car is waiting downstairs and we have to go."

Secret Agent Fred: "aq;fhpovxcmsurg;dsajhfpentmbvhsd;dfhs,mfvhsf,snf.    Argle Bargle."

mrpeenee, his voice raising with his blood pressure: "What?  Bitch what are trying to say, where are you?  This is the time I really am going to kill you and leave your body behind."

Secret Agent Fred: "aq;fhpovxcmsurg;dsajhfpentmbvhsd;dfhs,mfvhsf,snf."  and then, possibly, " I'm right outside the hotel."

mrpeenee, knowing full well better than to take this at face value, goes out on the balcony and sees no one resembling, even slightly, Fred. "Queen, I don't know where the fuck you think you are, but it is not outside the hotel.  You get here NOW or I'm leaving you behind."

Just then, I hear Fred's dulcet tones coming into range and, sure enough, there he comes, shambling up Chartres street, still babbling into his phone.  At that point. I leave off talking into the phone and just start screaming threats and slurs down at him.  Fred is completely oblivious to many things, including the fact I am standing twenty feet from him so he stays on his phone.  Kids these days and their darn gizmos.  Despite the early hour on our very quiet street there are a great many onlookers taking this all in as some kind of colorful New Orleans street theater, like something out of Tennessee Williams.

Secret Agent Fred: "Drop a quarter in it, bitch"  I admit it, a phrase that has certain insouciant charm, but is not helping anything.

I run downstairs and grab Fred, still blabbering into his phone, and drag him past various street vagrants, neighbors, the house porter and the car driver, whom I assure, "We'll be right back."  He seems unimpressed.

Also unimpressed is the hotel night manager who only asks "Are you checking out?"  No, fathead, we're rehearsing for the Golden Girls reunion.

In Fred's room. I order him to take a quick shower.  He refuses and I explain he smells like he's been rolling on the floor of a not very nice bar, a point which seems all too possible.  I finally yank his shirt off, give up on his pants since his belt seems to be welded shut and just give him a once over with a wash cloth and cold water, just to be mean.

As I frantically pack his suitcase and scream at him to get his goddamn clothes on, Fred takes the opportunity to critique my packing style by pulling out everything I'm able to stuff in, announcing "I want to wear that."

I honestly have no idea how I got him out the hotel and into the car, but finally, we are on our way and Fred entertains our long-suffering driver and me with the details of his evening's divertissements.  Choice snippets of my replies to this follow:

"You got punched in the face AGAIN?"

"Why would (our friend ) Levee hit a woman?"

"MUSHROOMS?  When the fuck did you have time to eat mushrooms?  How can you be tripping?  We have to get through security and on the plane in less than an hour."

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh"

The last thing our driver said to me, as he bid us adieu, not doubt glad to be rid of us?  "He is never getting on that plane."  Believe me, this was not news to me.

Amazingly we did, in no short thanks to my constantly hissing "Zip it" to Fred, who wanted to befriend every authority figure we encountered.  I can only assume the goons at the New Orleans airport have all seen plenty worse in their time.

God, they assure us, is a mill who may grind slow, but grinds incredibly fine and Fred got ground as finely as possible since airlines had cancelled our flight and wound us up hanging around the Dallas airport for SIX HOURS during which Fred mostly moaned and whimpered and I clarified that it was exactly what deserved.

When finally, finally, we got home Fred allowed as he thought he would stay home the next time I went to New Orleans.  "Who invited you?" was all I said.

Truly, it's a good thing I love the old thing because I can't tell you how many times drowning him in some mens room toilet seemed like a sensible idea.  It's so nice to be home.

Reporting Live from New Orleans, Part 2

Secret Agent Fred and I are back in New Orleans, living the high life.  Fred is, anyway.  We got here at midnight last night and he has already snagged more pussy than I have in the last three years.  Not that I mind, of course not.  One has to admire both his talent and his dedication.

The nominal reason for the trip is shopping; I have realized that if I wait until the house renovation here is finished and then try to fit out the whole place at once, I'd be just overwhelmed.  Plus I like decorating.  Also, I wanted some shrimp.

It seems our appearance brought with it a tremendous storm.  I grew up with these Gulf Coast downpours and even I am impressed.  And wet.  Fred wanted to know if I planned on going out tonight.  Go out in a drowning downpour to visit tired gay bars I didn't like that much thirty years ago? No thanks.

We stopped by my house to get a peek at the work wrought on it so far.  The roof has been replaced and all the nasty, stinky old plaster and lath walls have been ripped out, great progress.  Less thrilling was the revelation that termites had eaten so much of the studs, the only thing holding the whole place up was inertia and love of Baby Jesus.  The crew is just about finished with replacing all the studs in the house.

That means the roof, the wiring, the sill and all the interior walls of the house I bought three months ago are now gone, so what's left is pretty much the siding and the ground the place sits on.  This just in: some of the siding has to be replaced.    I'm beginning to believe that soon I will only own the concept of a house here.

On the bright side, Sister Mary Legs in the Air is leading a charge into renovation that is nothing short of inspiring.  When he's through with it, the whole place will be snug and solid.  And pretty much rebuilt from scratch.

Oh well, I am a mere vessel, facilitating the spread of Fred's slutty reign over New Orleans.  And I plan on shrimp for lunch tomorrow, so, you know, yay.

Celebrate

Let's celebrate, bitches.The weather here is balmy with partly clothed boys popping up everywhere.  Saki the cat got out, but came back and his new vet's stunning good looks are absurdly like what a soap opera veterinarian would be cast with.   Jason  is still puny, but didn't die.  Yet.  So Celebration.

Not last, Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore sold finally and the check is, as they say, in the mail.  This whole ordeal has been bruising and the only reason we got through it was  Ask the Cool Cookie who has dealt with months of madness, mayhem, mould and contractors.  He is, as his people would say, a mensch.

The very last day as the deal was stumbling through the byzantine process of unloading a house, a mystery line of credit popped up and we had to scramble to deal with it cause unless it was closed, no deal.

Fred had taken to his bed at his apartment, like some frail in a mediocre Tennesse Wiliams' play and was not answering his phone.  I wound up begging a friend of ours, Rascal, who has a key to Tim's building and lives nearby, to go over a roust the little miscreant and urge him to call the realtor ASAP. It's possible I also might have dropped a hint that kicking Fred could be a swell idea, but I don't know how all that went over.

I do know the incredibly patient realtor emailed this afternoon to confirm the check is on its way.

Also, chez peenee's back yard is winding up for what looks like a stunning late spring.

So celebrate.  Now is the time, this is place.

On the Prowl

Secret Agent Fred and I walking down Market Street in the Castro, talking the talk: "Nice people call it anal rape...."  What do people overhearing us think?  One wonders.

Fred and I have re-entered the world of The Rock n Roll Lifestyle, which is pretty fabulous, but difficult to accomplish anything in.  I stayed more or less in bed for 20 hours a day for several days over the last weekend, fending off all sorts of attempts to lure me out.  When I finally turned to on Tuesday, I had an astonishing stack of emails and stuff to deal with.  I had seen something from my tax guy that was something about filing an extension.  When I got around to opening the attachment, it turned out I needed to cough up $3,000 to the state by April 15, which was that day.  Luckily I was able to stop squealing long enough to notice I could do it online, and I did.

Fred and I did manage a very productive day last week.  We went out decorating shopping, looking at tile for the bathrooms in New Orleans and then couches.  Tiles were a big success, couches less so.  When did Room and Board turn into an expensive version of Ikea?  The only couch they had that I liked was the one we already have here, and I'm very conscious of the fact I seem to be replicating my house here at the one in New Orleans already, so no.

We also hit a sort of antique mall and found a lovely little orange lamp and then a weird gallery where I found a lithograph we're both wild about.

When I got them home, I realized they're perfect in the living room here, goddamit.  This happens a lot, I try to pay attention to the New Orleans house and suddenly I'm redecorating San Francisco.  So very not productive, but now I have lovely addition to my living room.

Photographic Proof

I am so bad about not taking pictures that when I got back from New Orleans, I simply assumed I had none.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered some aliens had apparently been snapping away on my behalf.  Herewith, Mardi Gras 2014:

Asian Magnolias exploded into bloom right after we got there, a botanical "Hey gurl, welcome back"

Two views of the patio of our charming, charming French quarter hotel

Magda and the author planning something or the other.

Magda sucking down a delicacy known as a Frozen Irish Coffee which turned out to be deadly poison and laid the poor  thing to waste for days

The coldest fucking parades I have ever stuck it out through, bolstered as I was  by my sistahs in crime,  from left, Secret Agent Fred, Sister Mary Feet in the Air, Magda, and the author, dressed as Roz Russell in The Women.  Please note the staggering amount of beads all caught in mid air.  We scorned any that had landed on the filthy sloppy ground.  Friends referred to us as "Bead Whore," but they were just jealous.  Sad, really.

The Haul back in our room.  We had planned to hurl our largesse to the clamoring crowds below on Mardi Gras day from our balcony, but the fucking freezing cold rain eliminate that plan, so we just abandoned our riches when we left. I felt like some Russian white countess kissing off the family jewels as she scampered out of town ahead of the Bolshies.

My new house, plain, echoing, smelly (goddam hobo tenants,) and LOOOONG.  Forgetting something in one of the front rooms when you're in the back makes you seriously consider roller-skates.

Mardi Gras on Ice

Histrionics on Tuesday were busy shrieking that this was the most miserable Mardi Gras EVER.  The problem with histrionics is they can sometimes be close to correct.  It was cold and wet and, yes, miserable, but I had a lovely time.  A few days since we got here have been warm and lovely, but Monday night, when we went out uptown to see parades and then Mardi Gras itself were absolutely frigid.

Highlights of the 2014 Carnival Season, mrpeenee-style included

Getting smacked in the face by a fistful of red beads from a float.  Hurt like a other fucker and I was actually sort of stunned, but even in that state, I managed to be furious that I had missed catching the beads.  If you're going to be wounded trying to snag some completely worthless shiny plastic beads, you want to at least have the fucking beads for your trouble.  Fortunately, our old chum Magda was right behind me and adeptly plucked them from mid air as they bounced off my skull.  Yay, for this and so many other things, for Magda.

A gang of costumers dolled up like pirates had a spring coil cannon made out of PVC pipe and they aimed it squarely at this annoying goon squad of Christians who were nattering around about how we were all damned and Jesus really, really, really loved us, but was still going to send us to hell for sodomy.  I had a neckful of beads, because when not getting clocked by them, I am quite good at racking them up.  I gave them all to the pirates and they were able to hit one of the Christians' signs with them.  Hooray!

We went to parties and hung out in bars and wandered around crowds of the most amazing costumes and high spirits,  I flirted with cute guys and then I came back to my lovely hotel room to thaw out and take a nap.  It's a sweet life.

Go go boys were universally luscious and one of my favorite wanted to get spanked, an option I always sign up for.  Bitch had a butt like a meat balloon filled with jelly. Of course, as I've mentioned, traveling with Secret Agent Fred brings many benefits, including the one where go go boys are drawn to him and he's great at striking up amusing flirtations with them.  Plus, have you ever noticed what a good bargain stripper boys are?  Inflation may have affected every other aspect of modern life, but you can still squeeze on the boys for a buck slipped into their panties, just like in the 80s.

The only thing missing was easy sex.  Back in the 80's, bars competed to have the sleaziest back rooms and I was a connoisseur.  Now, sad (and chilly) old men huddle glumly in rooms that used to hold a crush of copulation watching some satin skinned dancer like he's a commercial for adult diapers.  Fred and I were often the only ones tipping the boys and they were, understandably, attentive.  I felt it was the least we could do, after all, it must be tough to pay your rent one crumpled dollar bill at a time.