Because Viking Booty, That's Why

I haven't posted anything about True Blood this year because either a) you've been watching it and already know what tragic hash it has degenerated into or b) you're not watching it and don't care.   I think both camps will be satisfied with a report that Alex Skarsgard answers the universe's booty call by appearing naked on a chaise atop a glacier in Sweden.   And then bursts into flames.

Why?  Who the fuck knows?  It's True Blood.  Gibberish happens.  More importantly, let me repeat, Alex Skarsgard, naked.  What more do you need?

In Which mrpeenee Fixes Television

So the rumor that I am unable to pay attention is totally false; I just don't like to.  For instance, I have, for quite a little while, known that this is the 21st century.  I know this because people keep yammering the same old chestnut about "It's the 21st century, where is my flying car?"  Yaddayaddayadda.  Listen, right now you are plenty likely to be rear ended by an old hippie paying too much attention to her audio book of L. Ron Hubbard's wit and wisdom and when that happens you trade insurance info and fend off her attempts to talk you into a "personality test" and drive away.  In a flying car, you plunge to a fiery death.  That's an improvement?

I do not want the techno nerds wasting time on death trap flying cars.  I want them to get off the dime and produce a sexbot.  It's already 2013, for christ sake's.  (It is, isn't it?)  The question should be "Where is my lifelike android who will perform unspeakable acts and then go wash itself off?"

You know the first few iterations are going to all be Daryl Hannah from Blade Runner, cause these R&D guys are serious Big Bang type geeks.

Even when they finally get their hands out of their laps and turn their attention to running up a male version, it'll probably be Data from Star Trek.

That's just how they think.


Will they ever realize the marketing value of Mario Lopez's pussy?  I doubt it.

In fact, I have been waiting so long for my Genuine Mario Lopez Sex Toy Android, with the patented Love Grip, that I have now moved on to a new focus.  I want a Theo James doll.   With the patented Love Grip.

Perhaps you know of Mr. James.  He was the ill fated Turkish ambassador in Downton Abbey's first episode.  He has resurfaced on the television this week with a new show called Golden Boy.  Tragically, it is stink-eee.  He's the latest in a long, long line of kind of generic brooding alpha male cops with a troubled past.  Again, yaddayaddayadda.

The problem is Theo sweetie is so darn pretty his looks swamp his character.  He launches his broody cop thang and all you think is "Wow look at those lips."  You can't fight cheekbones like that.

I say go with the flow and write some show appropriate to his beauty.  Here's my pitch:  sensitive, but troubled Brian Scott (or Scott Brian,  I'm working on the details, ok?)  attempts to deal with his traumatic past (cue arty flashbacks) by leading a Double Life: by day, an underwear supermodel, by night, I don't know, something.  What difference does it make?   Spy, or cop or serial killer, who cares as long as most of the show features lengthy photo shoots of Theo in his panties looking all pouty and bulgy and stuff.

I know, at night he can be a sexbot.  With the patented Love Grip.

In Which mrpeene Catches up With the Rest of TV Land

It's true, I have avoided the siren lure of Downton Abbey.  It premiered right in the middle of the very dark days of R Man's death and, oddly, I was not up to the thrills of Edwardian Yorkshire society.  Of course that couldn't last; how could a man who's read and re-read all of E.F. Benson resist the Dowager Countess?

Over the last couple of nights I have given myself over to a marathon of all 16 episodes, sort of an orgy of tea and turbans.  I love it, just like everyone said, but I think that may have been part of my reluctance to dive in after missing it originally.  Could it really be as archly amusing as reports had it?  Turns out, it is.

Even before watching it, I had a clear image of the whole thing being a sort of mash-up between Upstairs, Downstairs and Gosford Park, especially since Maggie Smith is pretty much the same character in both the Park and the Abbey.  And aren't we all glad of it?  I know she can border on scenery chewing, but also, when she decides to crank up her guns, the old girl can be astonishingly devastating and effective.  It was the upcoming cage match between her and Shirley MacLaine that finally convinced me to get on board the Abbey train.

My only complaint: the luscious, luscious Theo James (who played the luscious, luscious Turkish attache) was killed off less than a whole episode into the madness.  That left the show with some pretty fine eye candy, but nothing of the stellar quality of Theo. 

Theo James was also the only good bit in some dreadful BBC sci-fi gibberish called Bedlam.

Still, come January when it returns, I'll be there.  I already am sort of jonesing for that beautiful red velvet couch in the library.

Blood Wrap

 So perhaps you're wondering what happened on the last episode of True Blood for this year?

Alcide Herveaux is still God's gift to, oh, I don't know, everybody.

Better. Than. Porn.


Bill Compton went from being a prissy noble pussy to being dead.  Tragically he didn't stay that way.

Jason Stackhouse is a dick, but one I would eat on a cracker.

Also,  Alcide Heveaux.  Damn.


The End.

Blood Sport

Can there be any doubt that it is, indeed, a wonderful time to be alive?  HBO's series True Blood returns June 10.  I am a huge-ish fan, even though I am well aware of the show's flaws, especially the luridly bad Southern accents plopping out of the cast's mouths.  But you know what makes up for all that?

Alexander Skarsgård's creamy, creamy creaminess

and Joe Manganiello's man titties.

Now word reaches us that Christopher Meloni, who apparently exists mainly to make me tingly all up in my bits, will be joining the cast.  I suppose the quota of hot guy pussy was just not up to Executive Producer Alan Bell's exacting standards.  To which I can only say, god love you, Alan Bell.

Fierceness

I am, apparently, the only gay man in the universe who despises the television so-called show Glee.   Hate. It.  I would prefer having Chlorox injected in my brain and the two times I have suffered my way though an entire episode, I have considered doing just that in order to erase the horror.

And yet, because I am of the internet world, I cannot escape it.  How humiliating that I have no idea who the Prime Minister of Japan is, but I know the weasely little white gay boy is boyfriends with the one in the bow tie.  A bow tie?

Through those same inescapable channels, word has reached me of a fabulous cover of Boogie Shoes on a recent episode by a tranny, who may or may not be a new character.  I couldn't figure out from the bits I read if he's a guest star or what and didn't have the stomach to do any real research.  Let's just leave it at a new-ish guy who likes to dress like a Lady.

And can sing!  Girl!  I think I may love him.  In fact, if they would line up all the other characters (except Jane Lynch) and shoot them so the show would consist of the new tranny guy and her, I would watch it.  I would also watch the show where they shot all the ones I don't like, but then, I'm just petty like that.

And as the dear Princess commented on Infomaniac, I also HATE HATE HATE fucking Blogger's new fucking lay out when I'm just trying to post my drivel.  Hate.

Television News

CSI star William Petersen in a tug'o'war over a bullwhip with dominatrix Lady Heather in some seriously slutty boots, cause that's how the show rolls. What's not to love?

Before last spring, I hardly ever watched television. I had my books, I had R man, I had the world of the blog; I seemed to not have time for it. Then after R Man died and I retired, I suddenly was enveloped by a universe of nothing but spare time. That, my sweet little potatoes, is the existence television was created for.

So I'm watching a lot of it now. Wait, did you think I was going to apologize? Forget it. I feel so very American. Mostly police procedural shows, where the characters are grim but with attractive haircuts and evil is dealt with properly. It is the direct descendent of film noir, writ small.

Having worked my way through Criminal Minds, Without a Trace, Cold Case and the many, many permutations of Law and Order, I am now fascinated by CSI, the one based in Las Vegas. I decided to be methodical in my attack on this long running war horse (it's been on for 11 years) so instead of chewing it up in whatever random order cable reruns decided to offer it, I have been slogging through the DVDs of each season, usually seven or eight episodes each evening. An ongoing orgy. I am now up to Season Six.

This seems like the most effective way for me and it turns the whole experience into something like watching a very long, very slow moving movie. With lots and lots of fabulous aerial shots of Vegas. Never has a city I have no interest in looked so glam and lovely. Also, I have developed little crush on studly George Eads.

Absolutely, Totally Fabulous

I realize it's sort of after the fact to be writing about Ab Fab's return, but since I've just posted a paean to my own tardiness, I think I get a pass. I'm assuming we all sat ourselves down to revel in Absolutely Fabulous Sunday night, did we not? Certainly I did, even going so far as to avoid the leaked versions floating around the interweb earlier because it seemed more fitting to watch it on BBC with their amusing, slightly prissy commercials.

I had wondered how the girls might hold up after all this time; the answer, of course, was brilliantly. The episode might not have been as solid as some of the earlier ones, the misbehaviour not as honed, but it was still more insanely hilarious and irreverent than any thing else available on television.

An early stroke of genius: the prison gates swinging open to reveal not Pats as you expect, but Saffy. It takes familiarity with the show to understand why the vision of Saffy (Saffy!) in jail is funny, but if you have it, then the reward is a big laugh.

You have to respect the writers for not being lazy and leaning on that built-in knowledge that most of the audience brings with it. When Saffy demands to be brought up to date with what's been happening while she was in the big house, a lesser show would have used the opportunity to role out a big block of exposition to bring us all up to speed with the characters' back stories, but not Ab Fab. Instead, we get jokes about how big Fergie's ass was at the royal wedding. And good jokes delivered as only Bubbles can.

Still, that familiarity was there, even without being written into the show. When Pats first entered, the audience spontaneously applauded. Hell, I applauded. There was just such a sense of pleasure at having them back.

Here's what I came to realize during Sunday night's show: Patsy is my favorite. Eddy gets the best lines. Bubbles is the funniest, Saffy the most cutting and Mother the most sly, but Eurydice Colette Clytemnestra Dido Bathsheba Rabelais Patricia Cocteau Stone is my favorite. I think it's her absolute refusal to let go of the 1980's. Right on sister.

The Doctor of Christmas Past

I spent Christmas day quietly absorbed in a marathon of Doctor Who on the BBC America. It is a method of celebration I can recommend highly. Over the years, I had seen the occasional Doctor Who, but never got sucked into full Whovian fan life until I ran across the reboot of the series with the Ninth Doctor. It's apparently a common phenomenon for people to like their first Doctor Who best. Certainly, that's the case with me, my heart nerdly belongs to Christopher Eccleston, who played number 9.

Christmas Day's orgy of the Doctor, however, was number 11, Matt Smith, the man who raises the question "How can such a homely git have such fabulous hair?"

It was a lovely Christmas.

TV P Nee

I am one big fan of the TV show Criminal Minds. Grim FBI agents talk in curt sentences with occasional wisecracks whilst tracking down serial killers. The A&E channel (that's arts and entertaining for those of you taking notes because the show is both entertaining and art) very kindly provides us with marathons of these shows every weekend, hour after hour of the agents kicking in doors, which is my favorite part. On Friday night , I counted them kicking in seven doors in one show. I almost got a little stiffy. Almost.

Oddly, the channel will sometimes repeat the same three episodes in row. Am I ashamed that on that same Friday night I watched the show where the killer glues his victims' eyes open (classic) and then, two hours late, watched it again? Well, yes, a little, but then, as a small victory, I changed channels.

Speaking of changing channels, I did not make it through the dreadful BBC sci fi show Bedlam last night. Ghost Whisperer had already plowed the same ground as a show with Jennifer Love Hewitt who saw ghosts no one else did and slept in false eyelashes. This was the same idea, but without her enormous fake eyelashes and enormous genuine breasts, but with the astonishingly adorable Theo James frequently "acting" in nothing but a towel.

I have no idea why I can't find a picture of Theo showing off his humpalicious lean torso like he did on the show. Sometimes the internet just lets you down. But not even his flat tummy and sizeable tits were enough to keep me around. I had to go watch the boys kick in doors.

Criminal Minds. And Booty

Sorry, I can't talk right now, A&E is running an all day marathon of Criminal Minds and I'm only halfway through. A day long orgy of grim, tight mouthed FBI agents and serial killers who giggle. Tip: if the guy sitting next to you on the bus is giggling, you're in trouble.

A big part of Criminal Minds' appeal is Shemar Moore

The FBI apparently doubles as a gay porn factory. Shemar also starred in Tyler Perry's Madea: Diary of Mad Black Woman. I know this because I have been sucked into the vortex of black cinema on the On Demand channel of my cable. The "black cinema" turns out to be all Tyler Perry, all the time. It's as if a "gay cinema" channel was dedicated to permutations on Cage aux Folles. Actually, that's probably happened but I just haven't found it yet.

There is on-going speculation about Tyler Perry's sexuality, to which I respond with a hearty "duh." And it's not his choice of appearing in drag for his most famous role, it his directorial decisions that give away his big mo-ness. Exhibits A and B:

Adam Rodriguez

Boris Kodjoe

stars of a couple of Perry's vehicles and typical of all the men in his movies all of whom are humpy beyond any human norm. It's possible they are mutants. Perry's set-up for the shots of female protagonists show the tender concerns of a dish detergent commercial, while the boys get an on-going soft-core porn thang.

Plus, the women, who are always strong , but oddly mistreated, usually look like they're about ten years older than the men (strong, sensitive, caring, butch, Christian.) What's with that?

Lastly, here is the big wedding scene from Madea's Family Reunion.

Could anyone but a gay man with serious conflicts about heterosexual norms give the greenlight to this in his movie. Yes, those are live women strung up there with some harps. Did I mention various closer shots of the set included big muscley almost-naked men in frames with angel wings and trumpets. Why? Uh, the polite answer might be "I dunno;" the less polite supposition being Tyler owed some trick a favor and this was payback.

Anyway, I gotta go, I got serial killers waiting.

Back in the Saddle

OK, I'm just going to dive in and pretend like I haven't been ignoring my blog for two weeks because no one is interested in to listening bloggers explain how they are just too darn busy to keep up. Life too much for you? What are you, a combination astronaut/brain surgeon? If you're that important why do you have a blog? Obviously, I'm just a lazy pig.

My dear friend Rich from New Orleans (aka Magda) was in town the last week of July which was terribly amusing and good for me. We did pretty much nothing and it was fabulous to be reminded how solid friends we are, and why. We found the perfect little table for my front hall in a consignment store for $180 and when they wouldn't come down to $150, I walked out. Magda patiently encouraged me to rethink the situation and the values inherent in it. Actually, what he said was "Queen. Are you going to pass up that table for thirty bucks? Shut up and get back in there." I am immensely glad I did so and publicly thank Magda for his sensible advice.

I spent the entire day yesterday watching a Hoarders marathon on some cable channel's whose motto should be "We Waste Your Time for You." I'd never been able to stick out more than the first 60 seconds of these monuments to civilization because I always thought I was too delicate to watch more than that much of the filth festivals. Turns out I'm tougher than I thought; how comforting.

Hoarders is an excuseless revel in the fortunes of troubled individuals who cannot bring themselves to let go of a single piece of the flotsam and jetsam in their lives. These sad, sad creatures (or, as I like to think of them, "freakydirtycreepylosers") exist in a bubble of denial. Look, if moving through your home requires you to climb over a moraine of empty gatorade bottles and old pizza boxes and if you cannot access your toilet for the vast collection of stuffed poodles you have dragged home from the thrift stores, do you really think all systems are go in your sweet little life? These shows are just the latest in a series of entertainment monuments (Design Star is another) that cause me to shriek at the television. This alarms Saki and makes me wonder if maybe the participants are any worse off than I am, carrying on a one-way conversation with household appliances.

I am also finishing up a 10 volume series of science fiction novels by Lois McMaster Bujold that center on a terribly amusing character named Miles Vorkosigan. If you like sci fi, you should give them a try. The conceit of a one character in this many settings allowed Bujold to study fantasy writing through the lens of different genres like hard-boiled detective noir, and regency romance, and whodunits. Thumbs up.

Also, houseboy booty:

True Blood, Fake Accents

So I went crawling back to Comcast. Yes, it's true. Last April I tossed their sorry ass out, made a bunch of big talk about "I don't need you, bitch" and now I am back in bed with Satan's own minion.

And why? Alcide from True Blood, that's why.

Who could say no to all that? Certainly not me. As fond as I am of porn, I have never seen any smutress who can stack up to Joe Manganiello. His only drawback is his last name, which just took me three cracks to type correctly.

Anyway, I watched it last night. Specifically, the episode where Eric, the big blond Alex Skarsgaard (again with the fucked-up last name. Is that a requirement for this show?) vampire runs off and winds up facing down Alcide. Both of them naked. Plus Alcide growls and flexes his big square man tittties. Could any scene be more thrilling? I'm considering canceling all my porn subscriptions,

I'm also considering watching all future episodes on mute because the fucking dreadful fake Southern accents are so bad they make my teeth hurt. The producers apparently have been watching far too many reruns of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof because everyone on the show sounds like Judith Anderson in that.

There is a wide range of accents in Dixie and while none of them are the gumbo that pours out of True Blood actors' mouths, what these misguided souls seem to be winding up with is more northern Alabama and Georgia, sort of a faux-Atlanta drawl. Let me tell you, honey chile, the fine folk out of the swamps of southern Louisiana do not sound like they're looking for Tara. In fact, southern Louisiana doesn't even sound like northern Louisiana, which is a lot closer to east Texas. And the fake genteel ones of the rich characters is just the worse. They all seem to have watched one too many reruns of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

So will I continue watching? Of course. I haven't even mentioned Ryan Whosits, Jason Stack house.

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.

Royals

Did you guys know one of the English princes (not the redhead, the other one) is getting married on Friday?

I will cop to being apparently the only gay man in America not wet over the royal wedding, but it all seems so, so bloated. A fairy tale? No. A fairy tale is when a naked Daniel Craig brings over an equally naked brazilian soccer team to my house with drugs and Lil Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. This is just a couple of really rich people getting married.

They seem like blandly inoffensive (if not terribly bright) people, but so what? Kate whatshername is so standard issue lovely she could be from an open casting call for "Princess (white)" and Prince William may have been fairly cute early on,

but he went to seed way too early.

Of course, there is Prince Harry

and you know how fond I am of gingers, plus he seems to sensibly be following the classic royal route of dressing up in fancy uniforms and getting loaded as much as possible, so, right on Harry.

And Diana.... Girl blows the sweetest gig EVER: just show up and wear fancy clothes and the blingest bling possible, pop a couple of puppies out and be set for life, but no, she wanted us to feel her pain. Here's your pain: you're an idiot. Also, I didn't like her wedding dress. All fussy and overblown and vaguely Victorian, she might as well have been wearing a tea cart.

So as a protest gesture, I plan on ignoring the whole thing tomorrow and watching porn. I'm going to try to tune into British smut, but you know, much like British snacks, that seems pretty unlikely.

Cast Off, Comcast

I finally realized I have, for years, spent more time scrolling through the program listings on our cable than actually watching any of the shows because the shows are geared towards moronic cowboys. I would keep hoping something interesting would slip in there, but no, just non-stop Friends reruns and sports, sport, sports. So I canceled my cable. Let me tell you, if you ever are starved for attention, just cancel your cable. Ever since I bailed out on them Comcacst has called and emailed like a stalker on speed. I keep telling them "It's not me, it's you," but they won't listen.

Super Agent Fred and I had very amusing time returning the cable box to their offices. Naturally they had a television mounted prominently and I discovered the remote that went with the box worked it, so I kept changing channels and commenting loudly about the sucky quality of the offerings. The people in line behind us were digging it.

Also, attaching the cable directly to the my TV without the box allows me to see about twenty channels for free, including Discovery, which is good because that's where Cash Cab is.

Do you know Cash Cab? I love it. It's a game show set in a cab in New York. The driver asks passengers trivia questions and if they answer them correctly they win bucks. It's thrilling how stupid the riders are. I've been reduced to screaming at the television by people missing things like "Indigenous Peoples day is substituted for what federal holiday in October?' Please tell me you knew the answer is "Columbus Day" and not "Halloween," the way the clue-free fat heads in the cab answered. Hello? the only federal holiday in October? Indigenous Peoples/Columbus? Hello?

Also I have a crush on the host, Ben Bailey

He's totally charming, plus Wikipedia assures us he is six feet, six inches, which causes us to think "Mmm, Big Ben." Yeah, baby. Ask me that question.

Netflux

The internet: a sea of information and entertainment at my fingertips and I spend the last two weeks obsessively working my way through Netflix's backlog of stupid science fiction. Oddly, there seems to be only one plot available to all these shows: a rift in the space/time fabric allows Bad Things to come though and menace earth. "Bad Things" is a technical term. Here's my report as well as I can remember it.

Primeval. Doctor Who. Torchwood. ("Torchwood" is an anagram of "Doctor Who," the nerdly kind of thing that appeals to me.) In order they were: grim and stupid; whimiscal and stupid; and gay and stupid. Torchwood, gay science fiction! Hooray! They killed off the boyfriend of the excessively pretty hero and anyway, it was stupid. Not hooray! Kind of un-hooray!

Plus, let me just mention, if there is a rift in the space/time blahblahblah I would much prefer to have armies of seriously mean guys going up against the Bad Things rather than some tiny random gang of BBC nerds, even if they do have such thick Manchester accents no one can understand them. That's just how I roll.

But I also stumbled across Pushing Daisies which was not stupid and was charming and funny and cool and great visuals and Swoosie Kurtz and Kristin Chenoweth, who were both fantastic, and the very attractive Lee Pace in the lead.

Of course, it was canceled by ABC after two short seasons, probably to make room for Sarah Palin's Monster Truck Rally or something.

So now I've reeled back down off the Netflix binge. Much like eating a whole box of Girl Scout cookies at one sitting, about half-way through, you think "This is probably a bad idea." And then when you finish, you realize you were right, but that doesn't help, particularly.

Also, speaking of science fiction, here's my new parallel universe boyfriend.

I call him Spunk Nozzle.

Hellzapoppin

Such excitement around here lately, mein little schnitzels. Recently, our very dear friend Superagent Fred (aka UrbanStreetPirate) was awakened at 5:30 in the A.M. by firefighters pounding on his door and yelling "Fire! Everybody out! Fire!" Not what you want to hear in your tasteful fifth floor studio, even if it is a semi-bad part of the groovy downtown scene. Superagent said he ran around trying to find his pants, his glasses, his cat, his cat carrier, his important documents, and his brain while smelling smoke. Apparently he passed up a perfectly good opportunity to scream like a girl, but that's just how he is.

Turns out the fire was next door, but it gutted that building and damaged Superagent Fred's. The firemen (I prefer to think they were muscley and had large penises because I always look on the bright side) busted down his unlocked door AFTER he had left and dragged the hoses through his place to get to the fire escape so they could try to get to next door.

He wound up at his boyfriend's, with his cat and was very flipped out. Who can blame him? So we took him out to lunch in the Castro to try and cheer him up. After we finished eating and were waiting for the check, I decided to nip up the street to run an errand. Half a block down, at the intersection of 18th and Castro, I saw a fire truck turned sideways blocking traffic and realized the unearthly racket was from some stupid heavy equipment drilling in the middle of the street.

As I walked by, I could see it had punctured some line and I could smell the gas escaping and I just kept walking up the street past it. Pollyanna, that's what they call me. Or maybe it's "Stupid," I forget.

I sauntered up Castro as cops were evacuating businesses all around me thinking "I'll just go to Rossi's Deli and buy a meter card and then they can close down." I am always prepared to be delusional.

Of course Rossi's was closed and then the cops wouldn't let me go back the way I had come, I don't know, something about imminent peril so I had to take a tour of the neighborhood to get back to where my dearest friends were having lunch. And there they were, 300 feet from the excitement, totally unaware of what was going on. Cops frantically forcing people out of all the businesses on one side of the intersection and ignoring the ones on the other. Go figure. Maybe their large penises interfered with rational thinking. Again, I don't know. We paid up and split.

And then I busted my shin in the same spot on the dishwasher door twice that evening. It's just one thing after another around here, I tell ya. I have to go lie down.

Health Chat

Tonight, we continue our occasional series "TMI Theatre." The scene opens in Doctor Mark's office:

mrp: Would you hurry up. What are you, a baggage handler?

drmark: I don't know why you make such a big deal about this. You're a gay man.

mrp: So, you have patients who enjoy this? That's even creepier.

drmark: Shut. Up. And by the way, you win the prize for this week's largest prostate.

Proving that snappy patter is worthless when you're standing bent over an examination table with your pants around your ankles and the good doctor's finger up your butt.

I believe it's traditional to describe ones prostate at this point in terms of the fruit kingdom, typically a grapefruit or a watermelon. I prefer to think of mine as a guava. Stupid thing has never done anything for me except lead me into a series of wacky misadventures and now it demands to be taken for several walks every night out of my cozy bed and into the much less cozy toilet.

Also, you know that corn syrup ad? Yes, you do, it's all over the Overweight Housewives Channel. It's the one where two soccer moms are preparing to slurp down a gallon or two of some sludge based soda and one meekly advances some polite concern about consuming corn syrup as part of their bacchanal. "You know what 'they' say...." she mewls.

The other one turns on her and spits out, in the most condescending tone possible, a diatribe justifying the glop, including the fabulous rejoinder "Corn syrup is all natural." So the mousy one is put in her place, corn syrup reigns and they go off to explore their new-budding lesbian love, or whatever.

Just once, I want to see the mousy one shriek "Get you, Mary. Don't talk to me in that supercilious tone of voice, you slagheap. And by the way, arsenic, strychnine and bird droppings are all natural, too, but I don't plan on consuming them either." And then she would clock her, right beneath her smugly raised eye brow, knocking her to ground where she would kick her and smash her and pulverize her. Did I take my meds this morning?

Houseboy Seamus Feelpatrick assures us he never eats corn syrup.

We believe him.

Super Bowl Has Nothing to Do with Bowling. Who Knew?

So, did you know the Superbowl was Sunday? Yeah. Turns out it’s this “football” thing and a bunch of guys from New Orleans

(not these guys) beat some other guys. I think. But it would appear there weren’t any strippers at the halftime show so everybody was bummed.

Be sure to tune into mrpeenee for all your sports news needs. Coming soon, “Baseball: Is that the Big Round One or the Little Round One?”