In Which We Investigate Boston

 

I went to Boston last week for a short vacation.  I know the last time I left San Francisco I swore I would never leave again, but that was a lie, one I tell every time I venture out of the city limits.  Diane von Austinburg was attending a conference there and I had never been, so I decided to meet up with her and see what the old place had to offer. 

It's pretty.

I had sort of an unexamined bias that had pegged Boston as gray and drab.  Totally untrue and I apologize for my misconception.  It's green and lush and filled with the most charming red brick architecture. Also the food was delicious. 

mrpeenee tucks into some really tasty seafood. 

I stayed at a nice, but snooty hotel, the Fairmont.  It was a great deal more pleased with itself than it actually deserved to be.  In my misguided youth, I worked at a lot of hotels in a variety of roles so I have an insider's idea of how things should work. Considering how much of their marketing bleats about their top-notch service, the Fairmont really could have come across with better. I don't want workers to grovel, but I do expect an expensive and very self-satisfied hotel to have waiters who show up at my table on time and for the hostess not to be wearing scuffies.

The decor leaned heavily towards Edwardian Robber Barons who felt drag queens were just a little too restrained. 

I think the high point was a massage I got because I hadn't been able to sleep and I was physically fried. I tracked down a massage joint not too far from the hotel and a) it was excellent and b) I realized when I rolled up that I had stumbled onto the gay neighborhood.  Apparently I have a homing instinct like a queer pigeon.

Oddly enough, this trip exposed me to an army of well-meaning natives who all referred to San Francisco as either "Frisco" or worse, "San Fran" and California as "Cali". If you are tempted to do either, please do not.  I cannot describe the rage that induces in those of us lucky enough to live here.  Maybe if you feel the urge to blurt out "I love San Fran" just bite down really hard on your tongue lest somebody from Cali does it for you. 

Also I paid extra for access to a lounge at the airport on the way home and it turned out to be very reminiscent of the free breakfasts cheap motels offer.  That is not a good thing. 

You know what is a good thing? Naked guys. 

The meaty charms of Brock Magnus

Also, there were way too many toilets involved, which substituted air dryers for decent paper towels.

My flight on JetBlue had seats which TURNED INTO FLAT BEDS. That is absolutely the only way to travel.  The only thing that could have improved it would've been this boy in the bed with me.

pussylicious

 

The superior buttchops of multi-alias Pavel Novotny, aka Jakub Moltin, Jann, Brad, Jan Dvorak, Max Orloff,  etc., etc.

In Which We Are Back Again

Once again, I have successfully escaped from Texas. I suppose it's a good idea both to stay in practice and to remind myself I still can do it. There is so much about the old place that just makes me crazy with irritation but also stirs a reluctant fondness at the same time. I suppose that can be true of every place, I'm just most familiar with the Texas flavor. 

I went to Houston to visit my brother Ed who has been living with Parkinson's disease for several years.  The last few months have been very difficult for him; it's common for Parkinson's sufferers to develop psychosis and Ed had a rough patch of it  This spring he has struggled with hallucinations and memory gaps. It was hard seeing him like this, he would have moments when it would be obvious he would sort of lose traction mentally in the middle of a conversation.  I'm glad I went to see him, I'm just sorry it was such a sad visit.

In related travel news, I had the best guacamole I've ever had while I was hanging out with Diane in Austin. Making it even better was the fact that we got it at a new restaurant called Tzintzantzun.  My hand to god.

One of the many best things about San Francisco is that no matter where you travel, you get to come back here when you return. I like Texas and I love California, the problem is air travel between them.  Yuck.  We sat in a fully loaded plane at the gate for more than an hour waiting for the fog in San Francisco to lift.  It's traditional when that happens to get home and tell your friends about it and they ask "What fog? It's been sunny all day here." Also, United lost my bag, fortunately they found it several hours later and brought it to me.  Thank you United, I would have hated to have lost all those dirty clothes. 

I am never leaving San Francisco again. 

Boys for whom I would leave San Francisco:

Every time I've run across this picture of this boy and his stunning buttcheeks, I'd save it to share with you, naughty pusses.

This young man looked suspiciously familiar, have I featured him in the Nekkid Guys segment recently? Do you care? Also turns out his name is Marcus Bailette, in case you were wondering.

More superior butt shots.

Selfie, daddy edition.

There is a present for you down in the basement.

Love a lout.

In Which We Leave Town

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In Which We Wander

Diane von Austinburg and I both remarked at times on this trip to Paris and London how very easy it has been.  And it truly was, right up to the point when it wasn't. The last day of our trip, we left the hotel with plenty of time, I fumbled through check-in, said goodbye to Diane, who was on a separate flight, and settled into the very fancy first class lounge, because I am a fancy boy.  It was all very nice, quiet and well appointed. 

The problem was it was just a little too comfortable.  After I found my fabulously cozy chair and started reading a very interesting book I had saved for this very purpose, I sort of lost track of time.  Actually "sort of" is an understatement; I completely lost track of time.  That's what reading will do to you.  When I finally looked up I realized I was in real trouble.  I had to scramble out of the rarified atmosphere of first class and down through a train ride to another terminal where I found the gate had closed at 2:55.  The time was 2:58.  Oops.

So then I had to drag myself off to customer service (everybody's favorite department) with my tail between my legs and admit that I had missed my flight for no better reason than that I am an idiot.  The lady at the desk was very nice and refrained from passing along to the ticketing agent the insight I had shared about my absolute lack of mental ability, and got me a ticket for the next day.  And how much did that cost you, mrpeenee?  Let us not dwell on such sordid details and just file that under the heading of A Lot.

Diane had mentioned that Terminal 5 of Heathrow Airport is the largest freestanding building in Great Britain, and I am here to confirm that, having dragged myself across every square fucking inch of that fucking building.  Of course the gate where I missed my flight was on the other side of the airport from where I needed to go to rebook my ticket which was then back across from where I needed to go to be "escorted out" since having gone through security I couldn't just wander off into the wild world. Heathrow airport is actually a very large shopping mall with various airport functions scattered in hither and yon.  All the directions I got for where I needed to go were couched in terms of consumerist landmarks, "Customer services is next to Starbucks," "Have a seat across from Chanel and we'll call your name." By the time I had crossed and recrossed the whole damn place my feet hurt, I was sweaty, and all too glad to collapse in the Heathrow Sheraton.  I can recommend their spaghetti bolognese.

The next day I went back through the whole thrilling adventure of getting through the airport and actually boarding the plane.  The only rough patch was the gate where three different flights were boarding simultaneously and a riot seemed imminent.  It was the most chaotic scene in an airport I've ever witnessed, and I've flown Southwest out of New Orleans when everyone, the ticket agents, the crew, the passengers, everybody, was drunk.

But I got home, hooray, and the cats are very glad to see me.  Toby has spent most of the last 24 hours standing on my head to celebrate.  I know every time I leave on a trip when I get back I announce firmly, "I am never leaving San Francisco again," but this time for sure.

There's no place like home, and no guys like naked guys:

How I could have used some of this as I was crying myself to sleep in the Heathrow Sheraton.

It all turned into a very long day of Not Getting Home.

Plus I had to then admit my shame to everyone, Diane, my friends taking care of the cats, the staff at the airport and hotel, that I missed my flight because I wasn't paying attention.

At least the British Airways guys were professionally polite, my "friends" were exactly as supportive as you would expect.  They all laughed.

It makes me realize there is no future in human friends; it's all AI from now on for me.

You think traveling in first class would remove you from the hoi polloi, but I am here to tell you there is no escape.  That mob at the gate I had to fight my way through was the hoi-est polloi you can imagine.

One of the things I'm reminded of whenever I travel is that people smell bad.

Also, I don't know how we managed to travel without phones, back in the dark ages.

In Which We Return

 

The mission statement of mrpeenee, Inc. LLC

Well that was fun.  I left Venice early Tuesday morning and got home something like 16 hours later, 16 very tiring hours.  Turns out even having a chair that makes into a bed, while making the whole ordeal easier, does not totally do away with the hassles of flying.  I've been home two days and I'm still trying to get my frail carcass back to normal.  Or as normal as it ever gets.  I'm just glad to be back to my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet and I understand that is the definitive old man statement.  Don't care, won't care.

Let me once again emphasize how much I appreciate what a good sport Diane was about traveling with me.  There we were, in two of the great cultural centers and my plan was to take naps and have coffee and pastries, which is exactly what I do here. The St. Regis cafe, a block from our hotel in Paris, gets 5 enthusiastic stars, would go again, in a heartbeat.  Also the place in Venice that sells pistachio cream filled croissants was really good.

Here's my review of Delta airlines, with which I flew home: the planes suck (The seat to bed thingy worked okay, but was so narrow I couldn't fit my elbows down by my side when lying down, and I am not a particularly wide individual.) but the personnel were great.  I originally had a 6-hour layover in Atlanta and needed to get a boarding pass for my leg back to San Francisco.  The desk I had to deal with had three ladies filing their nails and refusing to make eye contact and one large homo.  Naturally, we bonded, girlfriend got me a first class seat on a flight that was boarding pretty much right then.  I was home, and glad of it, before my original flight even took off.  

In short I'm delighted I went, I had a wonderful time, and I am never leaving San Francisco again. 

Fellow travelers: 

Well, someone knows how to have a good time.

I've decided to start a new religion

Extra beefy is always welcome around here

Everything counts in large amounts.

Extra tasty, just for you.

Buttchops

In Which We Try to Fly

 

Fred and I wrapped up our very amusing trip to LA (I had short ribs four times in four different ways in the three days that we spent there.  Don't ask me, I don't know how these things happen.) We woke up Monday morning to make our way to the airport and that's when our gay little adventure came tumbling down.  Isn't that always just the way?

The whole weekend the news had been full of rack and ruin predictions about a great big storm that blew in Saturday night.  I had ignored all of the weather related hysterics; I grew up in the swamps of East Texas and I am not impressed with rain storms unless they actually have sharks aloft in them.  Los Angeles is a desert community and I figured the angelinos were simply unfamiliar with the concept of precipitation.

Sure enough, the storm blew in Sunday, and you know what?  It was rain.  Fred went out with some friends but I stayed in the hotel and had lunch in the nice little dining room and was very cozy.

Luncheon is served.

We were supposed to fly out at noon on Monday, but weather conditions delayed our flight till 2:00.  No big deal right?  We got to the airport and our departure started slipping back further and further with weather delays continuing to be blamed.  Finally about 5:00, the airline announced "oh you know what, never mind, your flight is canceled."

While my fellow passenger panicked and griped, Fred got in line at the ticket counter to pry our bags out of Alaska airlines' nasty little hands and I started scrambling to get another flight out.  We were at Burbank airport and they were zero more flights that night, but I found a United one leaving out of Los Angeles International (LAX) around 8:00 pm.

Before I could even feel relieved, my phone decided it was tired and wanted a break.  I had spent the time we were hanging around playing games on my traitorous phone and now it was dying.  I hustled over to an outlet and plugged the charger in, only to find that in the 90 seconds it had taken me to get my charger going, the seats were no longer available.  The only option was an even later flight at 10:30. Fine.

LAX is on the far side of Los Angeles from Burbank, but we made it over there in about an hour and cleared security in record time so that we could go and settle in at the gate.  That's when we slammed into the world's most miserable seating.  The whole terminal is very new and part of the decorating involved chairs that were both modern and lumpy.  I spent almost 4 hours in them and never did find a comfortable position.

By the time the gate agent announced in funereal tones that our flight was delayed (AGAIN. It's not even the same fucking airport, How could this bad luck have trailed after us?) Fred was seriously beginning to fade.  The combination of chemo and cancer has been hard on the poor little thing.  He was crumpling like a balloon at the end of a very long birthday party and I was starting to wonder what one does if one's companion simply collapses in the particular hell that is an airport.

Let us just skip over the misery of those few hours, including the part where I made Fred just lie down on the floor because there was no where else to settle.  In the end, miraculously, we made it back to our own little cow town and never has it seemed so welcome.  My suitcase disappeared, but by that point I was perfectly willing to abandon it and all the dirty clothes it held.  I just wanted to return to the embrace of my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet.

Guys:

Why you looking so sad sweetie?  Have the aviation gods turned against you too?

Tight jeans and a voluptuous ass, it's a match made in heaven.

Sorry, I don't have any naked names today, it's been a rough week.

You know what would have helped the LAX ordeal?  This guy and 15 minutes in a spacious toilet.

I'm in a black & white frame of mind.

Dmitry Averyanov

While in LA, I watched Those Who Wish Me Dead with the chaturbate movie club.  It was pretty good.