Boxing Day

Sorry I've been distracted, but I've been shipping off all kinds of goodies to New Orleans and my life has been an absolute whirl of packing tape and cartons and pissed off kitties who do not appreciate change, not one bit.

I have known for months and months that I would be sending all the furniture and knick knacks I've bought here so of course that meant I completely ignored packing until the night before the movers came calling to load up the Pod when I burst into a frenzy of relocation.

Have you heard of the wonders of the Pod?  The company drops off a shipping container in your driveway,  you stuff it full of your flotsam, and they pick it back up to ship it off to your destination.  It's possible flying monkeys are involved.

Part of the thrill of dealing with the company is announcing that "the pod people are coming on Wednesday," which sounds a lot like the vilains from some cheesy 50's sci-fi flick are dropping by for drinks and a couple of hands of bridge.

Naturally, I have spent the last few days since the pod left bumping into things I meant to ship off in it.  Books.  Linens.  Speakers.  Cats that refuse to stop pissing in the corner because they're mad that I shipped the bed I thought of as mine but turns out it's "ours."  Stuff.

Bonne Année et Bonne Santé

I went off to Peet's Cafe this afternoon for a cup o' joe and some tasty bit and when I'd finished, I wandered off to the restroom to return the coffee, so to speak.  Of course it was occupied, so I waited and waited.  And WAITED.  Usually that's bad sign because Peet's, although dear to my heart, is a regular on the homeless guy circuit and any occupancy this long almost always concludes with some bag lady, having finished god knows what, wandering out leaving a pungent aftermath.

Thankfully, though, this time it was a mousy and respectable looking asian man who handed me the key without making eye contact and then scurried off.  I stepped in and was faced with a sort of still life: the wrapper from a moist toilette directly in front of the toilet and about halfway between it and the trash can, the corn husk from a tamale.  I wondered briefly what story all this implied, but then immediately knew that I didn't really want to know.   I peed, washed my hands and kicked the detritus into more discreet positions so the guy in line behind me wouldn't think they were mine.  You need to think about things like that in a small town.

I have no idea what tamales and toilettes have to do with this post, I was actually going to write about how I hoped this would get up before midnight and thus bolster my anemic count of entries for December.   I have three this year.  In 2008, my most prolific year, I had 18.  I keep saying I'm going to do better, afterall, I'm not doing anything else.  But then the cat or porn or, most often, slacker sloth gets in the way and suddenly there are no posts magically appearing.

I'm sure it's not apparent, but I put thought into these gems of deathless prose.  Some anyway.  Frequently, I'll get stuck struggling with the exact word I want tantalizing out of reach.  Maybe those this-is-your-brain-on-drugs ads were right; whatever.  So I'll wander off trying to come up with the word "judicial" or "soliloquy" and come back later only to realize the whole thing is hash, delete it and start all over.  Or go watch porn.  It happens.

Tonight though, I was determined to force something out, however hashish, since I'm located on the Pacific Coast and thus of all my little blog friends, I'm pretty much the last one left here in 2014.  Unless there's some lurker from Guam out there, and how likely is that?  And you'll be reading this in 2015.  It's like a really, really slow time machine!  With crappy spell check.

So anyway here is my last muscle pussy of the year (and a particularly demure one at that) and possibly your first one of the new

Happy New Year.

Season's Beatings

A dear old friend from our misspent college days in Austin appeared here in town and we got together for coffee, then lunch, then drinks and wrapped up with dual manicures.  It was the ultimate Ladies Who Lunch sort of experience and quite amusing.

As such things will do, the conversation eventually drifted over to masturbation.  Doesn't it always?    A problem with consistently making an idiot of myself is that people don't know when I'm being serious, so when I announced "I think masturbation is life affirming," our dear old friend just laughed, but I wasn't joking.  Spanking one's monkey is pleasure for pleasure's sake and what could be more life affirming than that?  For once, you're not trying to prove anything to anyone, no one is keeping score, all the crap that keeps you down is momentarily put aside in favor of me, myself and I: my favorite three musketeers.  Nothing but you and whatever filth your id feels like dredging up.

Still, word has reached us that some consider the art of self love with distaste.  I say if God was against jacking off, why would he provide us with opposable thumbs and porn?  Are these people waiting for permission?  If so, mrpeenee hereby grants you the right too all the squeeze play you want.  So here's to lightening the load.  Go ahead and rub one out right now.  Think of this as my christmas present to all of you.

Joyeux Noël

Everything is Relative

I had just clicked on a blog I'm rather fond of (brutos eros) and run across this charming tableau

when the guy who does my taxes (Taxguy) called to chat about how painful my relations with the IRS were going to be this year.  The whole thing made me wonder about karma and the coincidence of the universe and the similarity between insufficient deductibles and buttplugs.

Also, I think the red bucket lends an ominously festive note, don't you?

Also, here's my crixmus card for all you mischievous miscreants

Thank you wondermark comics

In Which mrpeenee Returns

Cause mrpeenee likes to be stylin' when he's suffering through airport purgatory.

People of Earth, I know what very few posts I am able to scratch up here have lately turned into two flavors:

• I'm going to New Orleans
• I just got back from New Orleans.

This time I just skipped the "I'm going to New Orleans" part and I'm here to report I'm back.  Surely you missed me.  And was the old place charming as ever?  Why yes, yes it was.  Thanks for asking.  I had a great deal (possibly excessive) of deliciousness, including duck gumbo at a fancy place and shrimp remoulade at a decidedly not fancy place dear to my evil little heart.

I also got to hang out in a bar called Lafitte's for their Tired Old Disco Night with Jason from Night is Half Gone.  Too fabulous, I only wish you could have been there.  The old darling really is charming, you know.  He assures us all the miscreants he teaches are wild for Beowulf this semester.  I'm skeptical, but he swears it.

He and I are were able to impress Secret Agent Fred with our in-depth knowledge of the song One Night in Bangkok.  I thought everyone knew it was from some odd Broadway musical named Chess about a real chess tournament held, logically, in Bangkok and written by the ABBA guys.  Didn't you?

Fred brought along his boyfriend (yes, it's true, he's off the market.  Sorry.) who's very fond of a snort or two so when Fred got bored standing around my house there watching me enthuse over drywall installation, I could send them off for drinkies and everyone was happy.

I particularly was happy because, at long last, drywall has been hung and you can now actually see the shape and size of the rooms.  Big, big yay.

before

After, with the new exterior paint and the dumpster box out front which has apparently become a neighborhood fixture.

The back rooms before all the walls were ripped out to make one huge ass room.

  

Huge ass room

Huge ass ceiling of huge ass room.  And get off that beam, I paid too much for you to use it as a catwalk.

I Blame Drugs

I join in this week's salute to vidiotic musical ancient history, what with Cafe Muscato's Petula Clark anniversary and the usual shenanigans of The Redundant Variety Hour stooping to Olivia Newton Whatever, by presenting T. Rex tearing it up with Children of the Revolution.

You can squint all you want, but eventually you have to concede lead singer Marc Bolan, partially buried under a wig he seems to have boosted from Cher, is wearing a two piece yellow miniskirt, decorated with random string.

More disturbing than his fashion choices is the spectacle of Straight White People Trying to Dance.  Girl, the fucking downbeat is practically delivered by cannon shot, how can you possibly miss it? And let us not overlook the guy in the fuscia t-shirt standing perfectly still, waving his hands aimlessly as if he were trying to contact the spirit world through an invisible ouija board.

Nevertheless, a great tune, rocketing up the charts.

Out with Friends

Secret Agent Fred and I went out for drinks and, eventually, pizza with longtime mrpeenee commenter Salty Miss Jill the other night.  She had blown in from the big city and I was delighted to meet her: she is both salty and sweet and I like meeting the people who bestir themselves to comment here.  It makes their sassy insolence seem more heartfelt.  Plus did I mention she was charming?  We wound up in the bar for a couple of hours talking blogger talk.  SMJ has allowed her blog to fall fallow and I was encouraging her to hit the keyboard once again.  I think there are just never enough amusing bloggers out there.  How else am I supposed to waste my time?

Also, she revealed that she had a waitressing past with teeny-tiny pornster Samuel Colt, which I think alone requires extensive blog coverage.