Dreams of a Dreamy Dream

In our "Hell in a Handbag" post below, corespondent Debs commented "medicine for bone cancer also gives one very vivid, livid dreams...." Amazing, since the one side effect of my AIDS medicine I didn't mention is the onset of immensely amusing dreams, totally different from my previous unconscious, very realistic with internally consistent plots and effects. Plus I can direct them at will during the dream itself. If I don't like the way things are turning out, I'm aware of it and can re-channel the action into more pleasurable directions. I'm wild for them.

Saturday night I had one where I was a house guest at Martha Stewart's place, along with our dear, dear chum Glenn Close. Of course, since it was Martha, the house was a beautiful series of Paladian pavilions, pretentious bitch. I couldn't really pay the proper attention to Martha or her goddam dogs since I was terribly busy as a high fashion model in the middle of a photo shoot. I had to calm the overwrought Italian photographer by telling him "Shut up, I know what I'm doing" in flawless Italian ("Stai zitto, io so quello che sto facendo," in case you were wondering, and thank you Google's translation thingy.) It's possible he was so nervous because I was wearing a gold suit with a gold tie set with gemstone. And I don't mean it was gold colored, I mean it was gold metal, but I was able to pull it off with my best vogueing. I know what I'm doing.

Real Italian models. Not mrpeenee. I know what I'm doing.

And then last night, probably overly influenced by my own blog, I dreamed I was sexing it up with the Night is Half Gone Aries guy. We were in a beautiful room paved in sea glass tiles and I was driving him wild by sucking, gently, on his horns. The ones on his head, silly. There was a little red knob on the end of each one, like a Jujube. I was so sorry to wake up.

In other mrpeenee news, Super Agent Fred and I are winging it off to Los Angeles tomorrow for a few days in order for me to escape from the kitchen renovation. I figure if I can't have a kitchen, I might as well do so in a nice hotel. Felix in Hollywood encourages us to come out on one of his fabulous sounding tours, overriding my puking whine about the heat. I know it's California and whinging about the heat here is nothing to endear us to readers suffering along where the temps are serious, but I'm delicate darling. Delicate.

We certainly hope this is included on dear Felix's tour. We would hate to ask for our money back.

Hell in a Handbag. A Nice Handbag, but Still...

Sweetums, once again mrpeenee begs that you bear with me. We're fighting back the world of chaos on multiple fronts. Before we delve into the sordid details, here's some houseboy bits to make us all feel a little cheerier.

Chaos, the one: Project Runway begins shortly and I have given up cable. What a fool I was.

Chaos, part deaux: Saki, the evil and adorable cat has gone on a hunger strike over the kitchen renovation. It's too disruptive, I've moved his food bowl, the kitchen is sealed off, he's mad. He hasn't eaten since Monday night. Today, in case you haven't been paying attention, is Thursday. Consequently, Nursemrpeenee has loaded up a syringe (oh, I just happened to have it lying around) with chicken broth and am occasionally blasting it down his throat. Yes, we're living in a kitty nourishment shooting gallery.

Chaos III: the side effects of my AIDS medicine, Atripla, which I had long since overcome, have decided to rear their nasty little heads. It's possible this is related to the fact that I was absentmindedly taking two of the pills each night instead of the prescribed one. I have no idea how long I have been stumbling along like this. Last night I looked down at the dose in my hand and thought "Wait a minute...."

So now that I'm not poisoning myself semi-accidentally, maybe things will get better. Till then, I can look forward to waking up each night in an agitated panic, gasping for breath like a crazed poodle and, worst of all, in the middle of a hot flash. Yes, it's true; my HIV meds bring on the menopause.

I've looked this up, out of the almost 800 men participating in a test on this drug, only one reported this side effect, feeling like he was nailed down beneath the french fry heat lamp at Burger King. Great, I win the lottery.

In happier news, the widely reported birthday of internet malcontent NormaDesmond (Happy B.D., old girl) has reminded me that Jason, over at Night is Half Gone posted recently that his version of Aries, my own sweet, sweet horoscope identity is this

God love you, Jeisean.

Kichenless

Kitchen, before

Kitchen, during. Hopefully.

I decided to wrap up Gay Pride Week by renovating my kitchen. That's gay, right? Actually, the timing was my contractor's idea; he shows up when it's your turn in his schedule and you had better take it when you can get it.

So he blew in this morning and ripped everything out. Saki is not feeling the love about strangers banging around in his house and resents being locked in one room away from the action and temptingly open doors, even if it is the room he would be hiding in anyway.

I'm just replacing the counters, tiling the backsplash and having the cabinets stripped and re-stained. No new cabinets, no new floors, no new appliances. Still the whole thing will take the better part of a month which means on top of all the other "no's," no kitchen. The big holdup are the countertops. I'm having them made from the scraps left over from when they cut new granite counters. They grind up the scraps and mix it with resin and cast some obnoxiously eco-hip material. Apparently, it is then hand-polished by blind nuns who have taken vows of cabinetry, at least if the price is any indication.

Anyway, after today's demo there's a gap of a couple of weeks while it's being poured and set, so no kitchen for mrpeenee until the middle of July. Think Bastille Day. Already I hate living La Vida Sans Cochina. I had to empty all the cabinets and drawers last night and carefully set aside a bag of snack products to live on, which I promptly lost in the chaos.

I assume Saki and I will be fighting over the cat food soon.

Gaily Proud, Proudly Gay

Every few years, mrpeenee overcomes his aversion for the gay pride parade and celebration thing and decides to attend. Every few years, mrpeenee is a sucker. This year, I noticed several gay blogs hectoring readers into participating in the parades around the country: gay civil rights are won not through complacency, they would shrill; you owe it to those who came before and lack this opportunity; a show of solidarity in the face of growing conservatism is important. And so I went and remembered, once again, despite agreeing with the high-minded sentiments, I do not like these gay pride celebrations. I find them tedious and crowded and shrill. My favorite memories of gay prides gone by were the ones where R Man and I would sneak down for lunch in the Castro, which was empty while all the reveling tourists were in the Civic Center and then come home to read.

Here's pretty much what today looked like

crowded, hot, filled with people I would not be enthused about sitting next to on a subway; not enough cute boys; a block long line to get in the fetish area (and honey, I can see that at Blow Buddies any weekend night I want to) and, in general, nothing that interested me. It was just another big street fair, with the same skeevy chicken fajita purveyors poisoning the unwary, speeches I couldn't hear and didn't want to listen to, and gangs of people rushing aimlessly around.

I wanted to like it. Honest. I tried to be open to it, to get into the mood, but the mood seems so artificially hedonistic and gay, like all those boa-wearing celebrants are just trying too hard. And Bank of America can put their GLBTQ employee task force in matching tee shirts all they want, I'm still not going to open an account there.

Nevertheless, here's some pictures I took.

Secret Agent Fred and his friend helped make the scene more bearable. So did some vicodan I took while I was standing behind a dumpster next to a cop. I am such a wild dog.

Tits. Everybody likes tits.

I asked the is guy "Can I take you picture?" He said no, but by then I already had (You need to

move fast around mrpeenee.) Sorry, bitch.

This guy, on the other hand, was very sweet about encouraging me to photograph his rather lovely man teats.

Steamworks, the bathhouse in Berkley, was advertising with high quality meat.

He was very nice when I asked him to turn around again and show us his butt. He even laughed when I said I was sure that wasn't the first time he's heard that. Harharhar. mrpeenee: crackin' em up in aisles.

More Steamworkers. Let me point out I have been a regular habitue of the old joint and I have NEVER seen specimens like this toiling away there. I must go on the wrong shift.

This is what most of the parade looks like, the wrong people in thongs.

I thought this was adorable; an adorable muscle boy and his adorable mother hanging at Pride with slightly less adorable boyfriend. Isn't that adorable?

I don't know what these guys were selling, but I liked their technique: large bare muscles.

Again, product seems unclear,

But the old tar seems like he might be interested in a pair. Or two. Or a six pack. Whatever.

Sling shot. He had a girl sort of hanging on him, but so was his chubby guy friend. Who knows what's going on?

Speaking of who knows what's going on, I was never ever able to discover what was so hilarious about this guy's back, but by then we were headed out and I had some more vicodan calling to me, so I wasn't pressing the matter.

The Refined Life. Sort Of

Darlings, we're off to the theatuh on Friday evening to see what Miss Sandra Bernhard has to say about things. Current things. We saw her here several years ago and were delighted with her efforts, so I'm looking forward to the show. It takes a lot to get me out of the house of an evening these days. I probably wouldn't even go this time if I didn't remember a sketch I saw her do back in the dark ages imitating Christine McVie living life as a restaurant hostess after she had received an eye injury from the flying fringe of Stevie Nicks' shawl. Pretty funny stuff.

Also, just now in our terribly quiet little neighborhood, I heard a racket out front and when I went to look (I had to, it was upsetting Saki and he demanded a report) it was not the skunks or coyotes I expected, but an actual fight. Fisticuffs. A brouhaha. Just as I was fixing to yell "I'm calling the cops" (which is a phrase I used with fair regularity when I lived in the French Quarter but haven't since we escaped to San Francisco) someone beat me to it. Damn. I hate when that happens.

Once we were standing on our Chartres Street balcony in the French Quarter with friends chatting and getting loaded when we saw a couple ambling up across the street. The gentleman kept repeating "Oh, bayby, bayby, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The Lady, without breaking stride, turned, punched him in the jaw and dropped him, as they say, lack a bag of dirt and kept walking. He got up, still apologizing and caught up with her by now in mid-block at which time she punched him again. He managed to keep his feet, barely, and proved himself unable to learn his lesson because when he pulled up next to her she popped his sorry ass yet again and knocked him down, yet again. They then passed out of our sight and lives, but they remain a symbol of love to me. Oh, l'amour.

You know what else is a symbol of love? This.

mrpeenee, Queer

What could be more appropriate for Gay Pride week than Cyndi Lauper's birthday? I love this remake of her old Money Changes Everything. I think her voice is better than ever and she's toned down the idiosyncratic yips and yaps and barking she used to decorate her singing with. Plus she's rocking a zither, or as much of it as she can reach around her enormous knockeroonies, and some guy is playing a squeezebox.

Are you sufficiently gaye? Find out. Get your Gay card on.

Tip: raise your score by answering “yes” to everything just like the real mos. “Wanna drink?” “Suck my dick?” “D&D free, right?” I would have had a perfect score, but I hit the last question, which implies black and brown do not go together, and I had to refuse to lower my standards by saying yes. I know they’re shooting for sartorial solecisms, but I also have my eye on an antique chair upholstered in black leather with brown velvet stripes I’m mad for. Plus, if you really think black and brown don’t go together, you have obviously not been paying enough attention to Kristen Bjorn’s smut.

Tragically, in light of mrpeene’s devotion to celebrating queer sensibilities, he has sprained some stupid tendon in his right hand. Since I am right handed, this is getting in the way of a number of things I need to do, things like grab a bottle of Mineragua (my new fave bebeda,) or clutch pearls when shocked, or snatch up a baseball bat, or lots of things. Lots of things.

OK, so baseball bats don’t really come my way that often.

Hot Time, Summer in the City

idntitapity. Indeed. What could be more of a pity than the fact that on Sunday when I was running around the Castro with friends in from out of town, the place was infested with more cute boys than I have ever seen there at one time, and yet today, when I was there armed with my camera, it was cuteboy-free. Dammit.

Castro, sans cuteboys

Where is everybody?

And what a fabulous first day of summer it was, you would think the ideal time to lure out muscley youths who had forgotten their shirts at home. Many of my photos today were taken looking straight up at the dazzlingly blue sky, a sky that had absolutely no fog in it.

I was not lying down in the street, I was just so impressed with the clear skies. Honest.

The air was warm, just on the cusp of being hot. Everyone reveled in it.

mrpeenee, and his pet hydrangea, reveling in San Francisco's heat wave.

What could be more summery than riding around with your hand hanging out the window

Queer pride comes to SF. Yay.

The only cute guy I saw and I didn't even get a good shot of him. Again, dammit.

The best part of this, the most fabulous day was that one of my most favorite restaurants, Chow, has a beauty of a new waiter. Porn quality, actually.