Lily Time

I mentioned in my gibbering about going up to our friend Mark's goat ranch in the wine country that he had gifted me with some of the mosquito fish from his pond (which is the size of small lake, or maybe a big golf course water hazard) for my new lily "pond" (which is the size of a generous bathtub.)

I bought a stock tank online with the idea that I would use it for a free-standing planter, but once I wrestled it up the back stairs into the patio with the help of my dear friend Magda,  the appeal of using it for water lilies seized me.  Magda encouraged me in this and let me just say one of the absolute best things about him is his enthusiastic embrace of my most crack brained concepts.

The only thing holding me back was my uneasiness about creating a breeding ground for mosquitoes.  Consider it a holdover from my Gulf Coast youth.  Enter Mark's mosquito eating fishies, and yay for them.  Still, my skeeter based unease was increased when the cutie pie owner of one of my favorite nurseries here, which used to specialize in water gardens, told me all the nurseries in town had stopped carrying water plants because of the West Nile virus.

Mosquito fish in their new home, pre-plants.  Now, weeks later they're still industriously at it with no food from me, so either they're eating the mosquito larvae, like they're supposed to, or they're eating each other.  Cannibal fish!  Eeks!

I was bummed, not only because my dreams were as ashes, but also because I had already filled up the tank (you have to let the water stand for a while to get rid of the chlorine before you put the fish and the plants in) and now had to empty it of 167 gallons of very heavy water.  By hand.

Imagine how thrilled I was, then, when another nursery (my favorite, actually, and fuck that first guy, even if he is pretty cute.) sent me their regular email blast announcing a sale on water lilies.  I was there that afternoon and snagged two.  The tags explaining what colors their flowers are were missing, so I have no idea what's coming, but they're lilies.  How bad can it be?

Bitch Stole My Look

Checklist for a video that is guaranteed to be a super duper smash hit:

• Break into Tina Turner's trailer, boost her wig, shoulder pads, heels and even her good brooch.
• Lure a Sade wannabe out of turning tricks for the evening.
• Snag the choreographer from some Michael Jackson video that never made it to MTV before he sobers up.
• Convince the cinematographer from the last Flash Dance sequel that "What the hell" is a good enough reason to shoot your video.
• "Borrow" the karoke machine from the 80's Jammin' Night at the airport bar.
• Convince the guy who has the aeorbic studio next to the Yogurt Hut to let you use it as a set.
• See if the pleather jackets are still on sale at the mall
• Get a fan.

I actually remember people trying to dance like this, but then, I am terribly old.

Tick Tock Trick

So tonight we move on from "previous friends" to "previous tricks."  Or "men with whom I previously had some brief and probably furtive sexual liaison."   Maybe I'll just stick with "trick."

Lured into the Castro by this afternoon's lovely, lovely weather (warm in the sun, cool in the shade, 60's-ish, lalalalala) I ran across not one, but two guys who used to be on my intime list back in the day and, honey, they was looking ROUGH.  I might refer to them as the Walking Wounded, but the first was only sort of shambling along and the second was just slumped on the sidewalk.  He might have been talking on his Blue Tooth, but since he wasn't wearing one, it seems more likely he was just having a quiet chat with his demons.

I don't think either recognized me; the first since he was distracted by dealing with the open door at Walgreens and the second because he was distracted by being crazy.   Besides, there are lots of men in this fine, fine country of ours who would only recognize me from the top of my thighs to the bottom of my hips.

And before any of you let loose with some supposed humor about what this says about my taste in mens, let me emphasize these connections were light years ago, when these poor guys were both more functional and solidly cuter.  But then again, so was I.

Let me, then, salute all the cute guys who are out there right now.  Here's to ya baby.  And even though I have retired from the lists, I encourage the rest of you to celebrate their beauty by squeezing on it as often and as much as you can.  Because tempus fugit, baby.  Tempus fucking fugit.

Madame Ex, Line Two

As a bitter old queen of a certain age, I have racked up a number of "former friends."  Chums about whom I now say "Oh, yeah, we used to be friends" or, more tellingly, "Yes, I knew him/her" with a cogent lack of enthusiasm.  A prime example of this turned up recently.  Let us call her Madam X, or perhaps better, Mme. Ex, just so no one will think I am referring to Lana Turner, whom I believe is, technically, dead.

So Mme. Ex and I go back to my misguided college days, back to the same time when I met the charming Diane von Austinburg; please note I am still tight with Diane.  Mme. Ex, however, sends me squealing in the opposite direction.  And believe me, I'm not the only one.  Diane and all our other friends of those heady days gone by unanimously avoid her and for the same reason.  The bitch cannot talk about anything but herself.  Never.  Not a word passes her lips that is not directly acquainted with her ego.

I understand the irony, the hypocrisy of someone who writes a first-person blog that might as well be called "My Fabulous, Fabulous Life" complaining about someone else's self-centeredness, but when not here in mrpeenee.com, I am perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation that at least implies I am interested in the other person, even if I am mentally composing grocery lists as they speak.

Not so with Mme. Ex.  If at any point in the chat, she actually stops speaking, it is not to listen to what you say; it is simply waiting for her turn to start again.  Thus, when she called to announce she had blown back into town, I settled in for a few hands of solitaire and to play my part as Designated Listener while she noodled on about life in the Southland.

A few times, since I was losing and sort of bored, I would thrust myself into her flow to announce what was going on on my side of the phone.  I told her I had retired, and then a couple of sentences later she asked if I was still working downtown.  I braced myself to tell her about R Man dying, R Man, someone she had known almost as long as me and with whom she had spent substantial time. She pulled out all the stops and allowed she was sorry, with the same sincerity she would have met an announcement on my part of a bad manicure.  And then, of course, changed the subject.

After that, it was pretty much wrapping the whole sorry thing up with several totally insincere "We'll have to get together while you're here." and a stern mental reminder to myself to stop answering the goddam phone.

Thank you Jeebus for voicemail.

How come guys like this don't call me up and ask to hang out?  Huh?

Town and Country

Secret Agent Fred and I just got back from a short trip to our friends Mark and Gaye up in Napa.  Napa was a sleepy farming burg which transformed, much like Aspen and the Hamptons, into a place where really rich people can go and complain to each other.  Nevertheless, it's a lovely place and Mark and Gaye have a nice plain house there with a lavish vegetable garden.

The Wine Country.  This is certainly not Mark and Gaye's  place.  It's a snotty champagne winery that was rude to Fred so we left.

We hung out with chickens

And goats.

We ate such fabulous food, tomatoes and corn and basil and tarragon and lots and lots of squash all rushed from the garden to the kitchen where I was slinging serious hash.

As usual in the country, we found many dead things, like this ferret.  Fred's the one on the left.

We picked tons of blackberries, just like when I was a sullen little white trash child in the wilds of Texas.

The garden was not just massively productive, but really pretty as well.  Because Mark likes to build things, every meal included a discussion about where to eat it, on the screened porch, on the patio, on the pergola, on the floating deck, on the terrace, yaddahyaddahyaddah.  This is one of the arbors.  The man needs to calm down.

But he very sweetly caught a bunch of little mosquito fish form their pond for the lily pond I'm  building.  He was srt of impressed until I admitted the "pond" is pretty much an oversized garbage can I bought and am filling up with water and lilies.  And mosquito fish, imported from Napa.

Normally I'm tepid about going to people's "country place."  I feel like if you're sucker enough to get on the hook for a second house, I don't know why I should be commandeered to come amuse you, but everyone I know who has one is always agitating for visitors to come justify the joint.  Still, I'm glad we went since it was a good time and Mark and Gaye are charming and we scored enough produce from their gardens to keep a small religious cult going for a couple of weeks.  What, exactly, Saki and I are supposed to do with it all is beyond me.

Call Me, Keeks. We'll Talk

My memories of my hair and fashion choices, circa 1974, make me remember myself as a frumpy dork.



I see now that I was simply prepared to step into the Kiki Dee Band, should the need arise.

"Feel funky, feel good, gonna tell ya I'm in the neighborhood."  Bitches.

This Just In

Yes, I am a cranky old man

And I am not paying $350 for a goddam pair of jeans.

On the other hand, isn't this guy adorable?

Secret Agent Fred and I went out for drinks tonight and I had a "Gaupo" which turns out to be basically a margarita made with grapefruit juice.  Tasty.  I might be a tiny bit loaded.