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.

Seen on the Street

I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but my fast paced life as a celebutant is just so darn distracting.  Anyway, last week I spotted this shaggy looking drag queen in the Castro, hanging out on a milk crate with a giant keyboard on her lap, serenading passersby with this warble as aimless as it was tuneless, commenting on Life.

Oh, people walking down the sidewalk
Coming home
from the train

 I saw her again this afternoon and was struck by three distinct things at the same time, cause my super duper brain is just that awesome.

1) Her repertoire is very reminiscent of that rendered by Eddy Monsoon in Absolutely Fabulous.  Perhaps you remember it?  Eddy had only one song, which consisted of only one line which she had written decades before in an attempt to jump on the singer/songwriter bandwagon and had clung to ever since.   It goes like this

I'm walking down the road,
People sayin' hello....

Believe me, the similarity is striking, although my friend in the Castro was selling hers with considerably more verve.

2) Secret Agent Fred lives in a sketchy-ish part of town across the street from a place that identifies itself as "The Medical Arts Building."  Details about which medical arts, exactly, are going on in there have been elusive, but since we always saw a bunch of drag queens on the sidewalk out front, we decided gender reassignment was probably on the menu.

Because these girls were uniformly unconvincing, we decided it was some kind of training center and dubbed it Tranny College.  Our theory was that they had a box of wigs and a box of handbags in the back; on the first day of classes, students are herded back there and instructed to take one from each box.  The next day they get their diplomas.  Congratulations!

My point is that the street musician looked very much like a graduate of Tranny College, but poor thing must have been at the back of the wig line.  It looked a lot like she had a dark possum on her head.

3) I was reminded each time of one of my favorite music videos ever.

Al Green, Love and Happiness on Soul Train: is there a more inspiring sentence in English?  But what makes this particluar video so noteworthy?  It is a wonderful version of one of the greatest songs ever.  EVER.  Also, there is the big lump o' love and happiness on exhibit in Mr. Green's polyester pants.  But particular to this post let us turn our attention to the church lady on keyboards.  I love the fact that she has brought her purse out on stage with her and put it where she can keep an eye on it at all times.

Also, one has to admire the consistency of her sour expression, which says to me that her thoughts never stray far from her conviction "These chillrun have done turn their backs on da Lawd." even as Al is rocking it.

Have mercy.

Pope peenee

I don't know if you guys heard about this, but apparently Pope Whosits, the Whatever, has decided he wants out.  I was confused cause when I first heard the story, I immediately thought they were talking about Cher.  Well, isn't that the first thing that comes to your mind when you hear the words "retire" or "farewell tour?"

And then I saw the photos and wondered "Who would have ever thought Cher could use more work?"  Once I got around to reading the stories I realized my mistake, but still, I feel confused.  Popes can quit?  Can be all "I'ma see you later, bitches."  Why would they even want to?  They get to play dress up all day surrounded by Italian men.  Could there be a sweeter gig?  God made you Pope, suck it up and stick around till you shuffle off, slacker bitch.

One of the most charming things about R Man was his unexpected knowledge of papal trivia including my favorite little gem, the fact that when a pope dies, somebody hits the Most Holy corpse on the head with a silver hammer and asks "Are you there?'  Three times.  I was fascinated with that and long dreamed of becoming the hammer wielder.  I had fantasies of sneaking into his boudoir while he was napping and smacking him with my hammer and then, when he jumped up yelling "The fuck...  What are you doing?  Did you hit me AGAIN?"  I could look really innocent and just claim to be doing my job.  Hilarious.

Imagine the terrible disappointment of whoever has been holding onto the pope mallet (you know they all call him "The Hammer") all these years and now gets cheated out of his chance because Ratzinger wants to go play bingo and hit the early bird special at Appleby's.  That is bound to be one bitter priest.  Probably going to take a whack at Ratzi on his way out.

So anyway, I've decided since I can't be The Hammer, I might as well shoot to be the next pope. What the hell?  So I'm not catholic.  Don't they want to broaden their reach, to show their image is hip and now and kicky and happening?  And so what if I'm gay.  Are you saying there's never been a Miss Pope Thang?  Listen, symbols of the papal office include the Triple Tiara and the Swiss Guards?  Say that out loud and tell me if it's possible to be any gayer.

Here's the deal, just call the cardinal in your district or region or patch or whatever they call it and tell him if doesn't vote for me, you're going to have to convert to Mormonism.  Or some other voodoo, doesn't really matter.  Don't worry if you're not Catholic, they don't know.  It's not like they're Costco and going to ask for you member card.

Another point R Man shared was that popes were carted around in a litter called Sedia gestatoria until after Vatican II.  Or maybe I.  One of those Vaticans.  You know I would have that bad boy reinstated toot suite.  Certainly them ostrich plume fans, for sure.

But I would want great big hunky bearers.

Isn't that really the point?  Cute Acolytes and seminarians and squads of choir boys.  "I'm infallible, and I say you need to take your pants off."  Baby, if the papal enclave is rockin', don't come knockin'.

but Amy Winehouse drag has got to go.  I mean, jeezy peets,  it's the Vatican, ok?

Send up a six pack of clerics and tell them the cookies they brought last time were stale.

Give It Up

And may the peace of the Lenten season be with you.  You did know today, Ash Wednesday, is the start of Lent, right?  Also, you knew that people who say "Happy Lent" like "Merry Christmas" are just misguided morons who are missing the whole point, right?

And we all are planning on what to give up for Lent as part of our penance, penance as miserable sinners who have left undone what we ought to have done, right?  Personally, each Easter, I know the quiet satisfaction of having stuck with my vows of having done strictly without whatever it is I have sworn off.  How do I exhibit such strength of will?  I always choose to give up things I hate, that's how.  That way, as I'm tucking into my chocolate bunnies and everyone around me feels guilty about failing to stick with their promise to stop drinking, I can think "Whew, I am SO glad I didn't go BASE jumping, just like I said I wouldn't."

For Lent 2013, I swear to pass on:

Indian food
Macadamia nuts
lesbian porn
Sylvester Stallone
Vitamin water
Standing around nude with the naked guys at Naked Guy Park
Yarn

I am certainly NOT giving up the fleshly pleasures.

Fat

Happy Mardi Gras yall.  Saki and I plan on celebrating by taking a vigorous nap.

Not Saki

Of course, my life was not always so staid.  I actually moved to New Orleans specifically to be there for Mardi Gras.  It was one of the few really good decisions I've made.  An example of the many, many bad decisions I made was the year I went in to work as a room service waiter at the Marriott late on  Mardi Gras afternoon after I had taken acid earlier in the day.  Such a very long shift.

Cute boys always add a lot to preparing for Lent, cause you need something to give up.

But most of my other Fat Tuesdays were wonderful times.  I hope everybody enjoys today as much as I loved the ones gone by.

Porn Friends Gone By

I wanted to knock this post out before I forgot about it, my teensy tiny attention being what it is and how I have to use it to focus on quantum physics and yarn and what I'm going to have for lunch.

Anyway, I've been very struck by a picture blog I stumbled on recently called brutoseros which is an absolute archive of gay porn people so very thorough it might be verging on OCD.  Instead of a few token examples of each performer, whoever is putting this together posts a comprehensive survey of their work.  You want to see what Chris Rockway looked like before and after his unfortunate haircut? This is the resource for you.

One has to applaud such dedication.

Also,  a few days ago, the post featured the only pornster I actually know, this devastatingly humpy Swiss guy who worked under the nom de smut of Alain Gerard, which is pretty close to his real name.

When R man and I moved out here, he reunited with his old friend Richard, a slightly disgraced and semi-defrocked priest.  Alain (who hadn't gotten into showbiz at that point) was Richard's friend and so would show up at parties to distract those of us given to drooling over muscular blondes.   Pretty much everybody there, in other words.

A couple of amusing dinners were enlivened by Alain and some straight (straight-ish) guy and what they seemed to think was their discreet flirting.  R Man and I were amused, anyway, the guy's wife didn't seem to find it too funny, but then she spent most of the evenings drunk and crying in the bathroom.

Alain was determinedly oblivious to the effect he had on me and my pants, possibly because he was accustomed to tongue-lolling adoration and possibly because he was distracted by trying to snag R Man.

That happened a lot; living with R Man, I had long since become accustomed to cute guys pushing me aside so they could try to climb up on the R Man Ride.  Let's compare and contrast, shall we?

R Man

the author

Let me point out, before this turns into an absolute pity party, I got plenty, plenty of mens and the ones sniffing around for me were not looking for R Man so being drastically different from each other worked for us.  I don't know how these gay couples that are essentially each other's clones divvy up who gets what.  Not my problem.

Eventually Alain drifted off to L.A. and the world of feelthy peectures.  And now that I think of it, Richard left the church and wound up in Seattle where he started his own porn company, called something like ooodaddy.com where he worked in front of the camera as well, so I guess I know two pornsters.

Yay peenee.

Guys with Balls

So it turns out there is this football thing (to reiterate: football is the one with the pointy brown ball, although why it's a ball when it isn't round bothers me.  Stupid thing looks like some internal organ.  With stripes.) on Sunday called the Super Bowl.  It's not the Supreme Bowl cause that's this

No, I'm pretty sure it's some football thing, cause I pay attention and since San Francisco is one of the teams (there are two) playing in it, it's been sort of hard to ignore around here.  Also, San Francisco won the World Series last fall.  Oh, and the orange and black clothes they wore were not their Haloween costume, like I thought, but were, in reality, their uniforms.  Isn't that adorable?  Between the two contests, life around here, in the World's Most Gay City, has been annoyingly boyish.  And not in a good way.

I would be more upset, but the quarterback (which is sort of like the Head Stewardess or RuPaul on Drag Race) is Colin Kaepernick and this is what he looks like

so, you know, slack is cut.

My plan to survive the whole sorry mess is to head out for an early tea with the Fashion Sensation at Nieman's.  That ought to do it.

Also, condolences and get well soon wishes to Jason in New Orleans who has to actually put up with the game being played there.  Stay strong sister.  I'll try to send healing vibrations your way as I tuck into a petit four with all the other Ladies.