Crexcent City Craziness

Our dear friends Kevin and Steve arrive today for a visit from New Orleans. The nominal reason is a wedding of Steve's nephew, I think they really are just trying to escape the miserable heat I hear is suffocating the South. Right on I say, I just don't understand why they waited so long.

We've been friends for quite a while, I believe we met shortly after time was invented. Steve is a landscape architect, Kevin makes Sak's pretty. Drugs and drag have been involved, yes, it's true.

Cow Queen, getting all belovelified for some long gone Southern Decadence bacchanal.

It's possible I am the only friend they have who does not pronounce his name "Kebbin." That's because I am a Lady, I do Lady things. Certainly, I am the only one who calls Steve "Cow Queen." The cause of the nickname is lost to the mists of time. I simply appreciate that he puts up with it, the old darling.

They've visited out here often enough over the years, that I have no plans for things to entertain them. I suppose we will just hang out, savoring the fog and cool temps. Could anything be sweeter?

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:

My Fair, Lady

Secret Agent Fred and I went to the Dore Alley Fair this afternoon. It's a typical street fair, burnt fajitas, bad margaritas, big crowds, you know the drill.

Plus partially naked stripper boys.

I love San Francisco.

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.

How mrpeenee Spent My Summer Vacation

Usually I don't put up new posts because I am a lazy slug, but since returning from Los Angeles, I've felt that I couldn't move on until I actually post something about the trip. Plus, I am a lazy slug. Herewith, mrpeenee's LA confidential. Progress on my slug-like state seems unlikely.

Our flight attendant was totally booty-licious.

I kept referring to him as our "stewardess" which I know is technically incorrect, but Miss Lady Girlfriend was nellier than even I, so it seems OK. His name was Marche (or possibly Marshay) which led to my repeated incantations of "Marche, Marche, Marche." Our attendant coming back lip synched the safety instruction tape. People applauded.

The weather was mild, we went swimming at night (which I love,) the bougainvillea was spectacular.

We hit the boy bars in West Hollywood, where we were staying, and I drank cocktails. The bartender at Mickey's was making up fake drinks to set out on the bar (who knows why? It's that kind of place.) He seemed embarrassed that I wanted to take his picture, but he has nipples like gumdrops, so what does he expect?

Frank Gehry designed a building that features a four story pair of binoculars by Claes Oldenberg in either Santa Monica or Venice. I can't tell them apart, says the Northern California snob, and I'm too lazy to look it up. I wanted to show Secret Agent Fred, but I had left the address in the hotel, so I asked Fred to text our friend John to ask him to Google it. John texted back "Tell the heiress to go buy a goddam smartphone." Bitch. I managed to find it anyway, because I am triumph incarnate. The building is going to be the new L.A. headquarters for Google. Isn't that brilliant? I hope they can afford a new paint job for the binoculars.

I took more pictures of the way too cool restaurant at LAX than I did of anything else the whole trip. I thought it was still closed, but it turns out it's been re-opened, so we blew in for drinks.

The place is, obviously, Judy Jetson cool, but the renovation it suffered somewhere down the line is tragic. As 80's as a Cyndi Lauper tribute band with these ridiculously inappropriate diner style tables and chairs. Somewhere there is a designer who should be dragged out and shot for this.

When Bloggers Collide

Because I'm a lazy slob, I haven't gotten around to reporting in about my fabulous, fabulous trip to Los Angeles. It's possible I will do so soon. No promises.

In the meantime, here's a teasy little shot, representing yet another triumph in mrpeenee's attempt to capture all living bloggers in a bar. In this case, the equally charming and sassy Donna Lethal and Felix in Hollywood. We were in a bar, we were loud, details to follow, although I will say they're both way cool and Felix's tour of Hollywood was genius.

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.