In Which We Play Doctor

 Did I tell you about the Uber I recently had where I, minding my own business, suddenly realized the musical entertainment was a Christian rock radio station.  Dude, really? Could we maybe change to  heathen R&B? Agnostic jazz? Something that doesn't include the word "praise" quite so often or quote some fairy tale from the bible.

I have been spending quite some time with Uber of late.  Part of the joys of being an old man are the abundance of doctor's appointments that I get to enjoy.  Waiting rooms all across San Francisco have become known to me.  When I was younger, I would pass the time by rearranging the furniture in them more to my liking, but now I just sit there and sulk.

But mrpeenee, I hear you ask, what is the point of these medical rendezvous?  Oh, this and that, most of it expensive and usually painful. I had to get my trigger point injection in my back cause the first one had finally worn off and also which, ouch. 

Speaking of ouch, I had to get the various bits of sun damage spread out over my hide checked on.  As a small blonde child growing up on the Gulf Coast, I had plenty of blistered skin and my frequent sunburns are coming back to haunt me.  Discolored lumps and bumps now litter any patch of skin that was ever exposed to the sun. My doctor refers to them as barnacles.  Hilarious sweetie, absolutely side splitting.

You deal with these by taking liquid nitrogen on a q-tip and dabbing it on the offending lump. The nitrogen cauterizes said lump ("cauterize" is a fancy word for "burn that shit off" and it is exactly as much fun as it sounds.) I always exaggerated the discomfort and would squeal and berate my doctor for humorous effect.  My original practitioner was always quick with the dabbing part so we could move on to my theatrics.  My current doctor apparently feels the need to be more thorough and will cheerfully swab away like it's some arts and crafts project.  I want to explain to her that this is not some hobby, but I'm so busy gritting my teeth I can't quite get around to it.

Also, I had to go to the chiropractor, but since that's mostly just a gossiping, I don't really mind it.

Medically necessitated naked guys:

The weather continues to insist on being winter.

I forget his name, which just seems like rank ingratitude, sorry.

Serious buttchops.

Even the most tasteful interiors are improved with the addition of a beefy young man.

Once again, redhead pussy is simply irresistible.

Also I had to go the eye doctor because my computer glasses aren't working.  So frustrating when I am trying to mine the nude dudes of Tumblr.

But somethings even I can see.

A Day of Beauty

What a lovely, San Francisco kind of day. It rained all night, but today is crisp and fresh washed, the perfect day for an elderly poof, such as I, to go down to the Castro to get my hair did and a mani-pedi. Loved it.

Castro Street was at its most charming.

Some guy was sprawled on the side walk so I asked "Are you all right?" He replied indiginanatly "Of course I am." Of course he was, and all was right with the world.

Is there anything better than gossip to go with your hair-do? My beautician, Jeff, was in rare form because a big muscley thing was in one of the chairs on the other side of the very small shop and Jeff had to practically whisper the dirt to me, which just improved it, n'est-ce pas? Seems Miss Muscle Thang has recently divorced his wife the better to pursue his sideline of snagging rich old men. He looked sort of like this, but more or less in clothes.

On behalf of old men everywhere, I say if you look like a gold digger, if you gots the gold digging equipment, go dig the mother fucking gold and make some old man happy. Plus, for some reason, Jeff does a better job cutting my hair when he's distracted with gossip, so yay.

Then, on to Hand Job for my nails. Although I never specify who I want, I almost always wind up with Malwani. I have the impression she is not the most popular girl there, possibly because she is one of the homeliest trannies I've ever seen. But really, I'm not there for a date, so what do I care?

She does have spectacular nails, which is encouraging.

There used to be a kind of nice looking guy here who has vanished and my dragdar tells me he may have grown his hair out, rooted through his mawmaw's jewelery box and emerged as Malwani. There are some Ladies who go through the change and give it their all, attempting to be the most feminine creature possible. Others make no effort to hide their more masculine voice and profile, who decide that they are all the girl they need to be and they are the ones I applaud and that seems to be Our Girl Malwani.

Also, Malawani understand my cuticles.

At the other end of the Hand Job spectrum, their receptionist/esthetician is this terribly cute boy named Frank.

I think a little eye candy improves any beauty regimen, don't you? One of the services Hand Job offers is a Boyzilian Wax, the very idea of which makes my nuts retract into my body cavity and which I think Frank may be modeling here:

He's also a model, you can see his site at Nakkid youth

I have no idea if his facials include a happy ending; I'm simply happy to live in San Francisco, where the guy booking your pedicure is possibly an up-and-coming porn star, or should be anyway.

A Jam Packed Life

I don't know, sometimes writing a blog post seems like more work than it's worth.

But then I remember all of my fans, the little people, god love you, waiting breathlessly for the semi-latest bulletins from the fast-paced life of mrpeenee. And then I think "You know, this crap is more work than it's worth."

But now, having discovered I had mixed up my antidepressants with the Tic-tacs, I am back on track and as soon as I pry Saki away from the keyboard where he's hogging the computer with his filthy dog 'n cats porn, I am flinging the on dits.

We had a lively supper with friends last week where the subject of mrpeenee's retirement and my new and improved life came up. "But what do you do?" the table asked, all concerned and mystified and stuff. Darlings, you don't understand; I don't do anything. I don't have to. Once you have freed yourself from wage slavery, the world is your big, fat, lazy oyster. I sleep a lot; I look out at the garden and rebuke myself for not gardening; I play with the cat. That's about it.

Exceptions must be made, of course. Today was a non-stop whirl of exhausting activity. Lunch with Super Agent Fred, a mani-pedi with his boyfriend, a visit to chiropractor, and a haircut. It was so demanding, I missed my late afternoon nap and only barely squeezed in my early afternoon one.

mrpeenee's nails, salon fresh.

Portrait of the author's haircut

Greg

I had to go see the Greg, the World's Greatest Chiropractor, because I spent the last three nights hunched in front of this very computer watching some stupid TV show from last year called FlashForward and screwed up my neck doing so. I am such a fragile blossom. The show sucked me in with an intriguing premise (everyone in the world passes out for two minutes, seventeen seconds resulting in mass destruction, and everyone has a vision of what their lives will be like in exactly six months) but the whole thing degenerated into turgid soap opera land despite some really good acting. I still have five episodes to go, but I'm so annoyed at it for screwing up my neck, I've decided to punish it by bailing out. Plus I understand ABC canceled it after one season and the last episode seriously misses out on the "wrapping it up" juice one wants after investing 22 episodes of your time in the mess.

Consequently, I'm looking for recommendations of something good to watch on either hulu or netflix streaming. John Barrowman's cover of Beyonce's Single Ladies on youtube does not count, thank you.

Zap, zap, zap. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

I had an odd shaped little bump appear on the side of my face so I dropped by my doctor for him to have look see. A childhood on the Texas Gulf Coast and the resultant annual severe summer sun burn has left me with a heeby jeeby reaction to anything that might be cancerous. Of course, this wasn't anything, but then Mark, my doctorman, asked "As long as you're here, do you want to deal with some of those broken blood vessels on your nose?"

My people originated in Ireland, England, Germany, that broad swath of Northern Europe where all forms of cabbage are so very popular and where pale skin evolved as a away of dealing with seeing sunshine only a couple a weeks out of the year. That was fine until, like my family, they had the bright idea of migrating to Texas and California where fair complexions are a real hazard. Consequently, aside from the silly old melanoma issue, I have a nose as I enter middle age that looks like it was modeled on that of W.C. FIelds. It's basically a kind of faint magenta with a tracery of blood vessels; rather like having a map of Ireland printed on my nose. Pretty.

I know from past experience the "Let's deal with those" that Mark was so casually referring to is a torture involving an electric needle that fries the vessels. It's true, they're gone afterwards, but it's also true IT HURTS. I have mentioned, have not I, what a coward about ouchies I am. Mark's answer is that I should take a deep breath and hold it during the electrocution. He claims it will help, but I suspect it's really to keep me from shrieking during each zap.

I know this is what Ladies go through regularly with electrolosis to shape eyebrows and such and all I can say is you go girl, you're better woman than me. When my pal Jen was describing her waxing process, I was laughing, but also feeling sort of vaporish. She got to the point where the waxer demanded Jen hold her buttocks open ("You help.") and I thought my I saw my life pass before me, like a drowning man. Jen's boyfriend is terribly, terribly cute, but I think if someone demanded I spread my cheeks prepatory to ripping the hairs out with dried wax, I would turn lesbian and learn to love my hairy crack.