In Which We Check In on the Panty Music Scene

 

Here:

I don't usually bother with videos here at mrpeenee International because I find trying to post them to be too much trouble.  Jon over at Razzle Dazzle is much better at it than I am and always comes up with the most amusing bits to entertain us with.  But this particular one just seemed so ridiculously hilarious, I couldn't resist.

And why would I find this so diverting?  Let's break it down, shall we?

• It's a band in their underpants called The Skivvies.  Do I need to expand on that?
• The guy singing lead (who claims his name is Travis Kent, but let us refer to him simply as ManBun.) certainly understands what his strong suit is.
• None of these people should be singing in public.  In fact, it is one of the few performances of spoken word that is better than the subsequent attempt at belting out the tune.
• Things are stumbling along, aided in no small part by ManBun's strippin, when he unexpectedly breaks into that weird-ass Irish clogging thing.  Did you expect some Lord of the River Dance/go-go boy moment? No you did not.
• Again, ManBun strippin.  Jock strap.  Ass shot.  And tits so firm they don't bounce.

Here's some more private dancers for you:

I hope this satisfies those readers who complain about too many smooth, beautiful young men here.  Ingrates.

Back to our regularly scheduled cute guys.

Who would complain about this?

I just hope these boys never hear about how unappreciative you lot are about all their efforts.

Let us never speak of this again.

In Which We See the Sights

For years every time I've indulged in the thrills of a doctor visit, the medical profession will roll out some version of the sentence "Well, you're getting older . . . ."  Lately I haven't heard it so much, presumably because I am not getting older but rather I have now arrived at that destination. 

I did bump into it last spring when my eye doctor tried to brace me for some bad news by explaining that everybody, simply everybody, eventually gets cataracts if they live long enough.  Trying to be sympathetic, I murmured something about, "Yeah that's a shame,"  but then realized he was telling me that I was developing a cataract.

I finally had a consultation at a clinic that specializes in cataracts.  It was one of those specialized outfits that has found a medical niche and has created an absolute factory to deal with it.  After a barrage of tests, the main doctor guy blew in to say my cataracts were no big deal and I could wait a few years for the surgery if I wanted to.  He phrased the news as if he were presenting options I should deliberate about.  I asked him if many of his patients argued with him when he told them they didn't need surgery. 

While relieved (and I left in a hurry in case he changed his mind) I still had to deal with the after effects of having my eyes dilated for all those stupid tests.  Decades of myopia have taught me how little I like dilation because it leaves me with a headache and kind of queasy and, oh yeah, blind as a bat.  This particular session used some kind of super special dialation that made my pupils big as big saucers. Had I wanted to, I'm sure I could have seen the inside of the back of my head. 

Even with my sunglasses on, I was stumbling through a landscape of screaming white light and occasional blurry shadows which might or might not be my Uber.  Acting mostly on faith, I climbed into one of the shadows and whoever it was then dropped me off across the street from my building.  I was so relieved it took me a minute to realize, I now had to navigate six lanes of very busy traffic by means of echolocation, pretty much. But the dark lure of my vampire lair bedroom was calling to me so I just threw myself out into traffic and hoped for the best. I seem not to have been run over and I don't have to have cataract surgery yet, so yay. 

I think what I need is some seeing eye muscle pussy:

Bathing suit season has now ended, so sad.

Nuts

The combination of a hot muscley guy and books is always a winning one.

He seems not to understand how to use kitchen tools, but who cares?

He looks like a sweet boy who needs a firm hand.

Diane von Austinburg and Chaturbate Mikey have both commented recently that I don't include enough hairy daddies, to which I say "Go publish your own damn blog."

In Which We Go To A Funeral

We had secret agent Fred's funeral on Saturday on the rooftop deck of my building.  It was sad.  A huge fog bank blew in so it was windy and gray and cold; the very definition of funereal. 

I had been scrambling to get Fred's apartment cleaned out and simultaneously organizing the service.  I was tired and anxious and busy suppressing my emotions, cause that's an important part of being a white boy, and I wound up yelling at my good friend Drumstick.  Oh dear.  Even after apologizing profusely I still felt bad.  At the best of times, I don't have a really strong grip on my temper, and this was definitely not the best of times. 

A big part of the problem was, of course, relatives.  Fred's sister and cousin were in town for the festivities and wound up grating on my nerves.  Both are perfectly nice women under normal circumstances, but they were reacting to their grief.  His sister kept offering to help, but then wouldn't do anything I asked her to.  Plus, she snubbed Diane von Austinburg, making clear that she thought Diane was being presumptive even after I explained how much help Diane has been. Totally Mean Girl.  And the cousin was one of those people who lives to show how very sensitive they are, to the point of making her grief sort of performative. 

Sort of like this.

My favorite part was the art show we put on by pulling out Fred 's paintings and canvases so people could appreciate them. Our friends took a lot of them, but there are still plenty left.  I will be creating a website to make the remainders available.  Watch for more details about how you two can have your very own Secret Agent Fred art. 

Anyway, I am refraining from any more complaints.  It was a long, long day, and I'm glad it's over.  I'm also glad I'm all through cleaning out the apartment.  I woke up the day after I finished and realized I didn't have anything to do and was so immensely relieved.

When you're planning my funeral, here are some suggestions for pallbearers and memorial Go-Go boys: 

Curvy

Speaking of white boys.

Do not get poop stains on my good white couch.

Plein aire.

Sometimes bleach blonde frost 'n tips are the way to go.

In Which We Clean House

 

I have spent the last week organizing and cleaning out super agent Fred's apartment.  Considering it is only a studio, there certainly was a lot of crap to get through.  A huge chunk was Fred's art supplies. Photographic evidence supplied:

 

I had discovered a recycling place here in town that would take art supplies.  They had very clear standards about what they would take, but they would even come and haul them off IF you packed them up in specific boxes and there had to be at least six boxes.  No problem hitting the minimum box.  Photographic evidence applied: 

I spent all day packing paints and brushes and who knows what.  Artist esoterica, that's what.  Then I went to the recycler's website to arrange for them to come schlep it all off only to be met by a notice there saying they were taking a break from donations.  As you can see in the picture above, the windows were all blocked with the flotsam and jetsam I have been dealing with which was fortunate because otherwise I would have thrown myself out one.

I lay in bed that evening crippled and concerned the cats would figure out I was too weak to fend them off and they would eat me, all the while trying to conceive a plan that would allow me to unload nine very heavy boxes of art supplies.  That's when I remembered my old friend Craigslist.  When I sold my house, I put a listing on there announcing free crap and there was a line out the door on the day of the crap fest.  Following that plot, I posted a listing for Fred's stuff and within 12 hours I had agreed to meet some guy over there who was the lucky winner of all the equipment a budding artist could want. 

I also now have more than 200 responses in my email from Craigslist aficionados, but first come,  first serve.  Also, two things that made me glad I went with the first guy.  He was not only interested in the art stuff, but willing to take all sorts of other random junk I was trying to get rid of.  Yay.  And he was really cute in a classically California surfer boys sort of way.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Anyway.  Everyday when I go over to the apartment and work and work, I think "Oh thank God, I'm almost through." And then the next time I come back whatever progress I made seems to have evaporated and I am confronted with a mountain of Fredtastic debris.  But after today, thanks to the Craigslist cutie, I think I am pretty much finished.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Before

After

Cute guys who may or may not be on Craigslist:

You know how fond I am of gingers.

The terror of the locker room, hopefully.

Ready to rumble.

Honestly, I'm too tired to come up with captions for nekkid guys.

The old peekaboo pose.

In Which We Have News from the Cat House

 

Two weeks ago when we introduced Toby the cat here, I didn't mention that Toby had originally been Secret Agent Fred 's cat.  He moved over here when Fred got too sick to take care of him and now he's my cat.  I'm very glad to have him, but it seems like a sad consolation prize for Fred's death. 

Toby is the world's sweetest cat.  As I write this, he is curled up next to me with his head on my shoulder.  I am overwhelmed with the sweetness.  Sweet, sweet, sweet.  Tout sweet.  When I would visit them, Fred would be lounging in bed and Toby would walk over his face and then lay down on top of his head.  I would always think how glad I was that I never had a cat inclined towards trying to suffocate me.  And now I do.  I just hate cheap irony.

Speaking of introductions, how did the one between Octavia and Toby go?  Not bad, but not the way I expected either.  Toby is younger and bigger than Octavia so I was afraid he might pick on her, but that is not the way this funny old world rolls.  When I opened the door to let them meet each other, Octavia immediately let loose with a string of growls and hisses.  I was shocked at such language from a respectable old widda lady.   

That was a little more than a week ago and things have settled down to a sort of stiff-legged detente.  She is still hissy, but not as implacably.  Toby, on the other hand, just wants to be friends.  His attitude seems to be pretty much "bitch, what is wrong with you?"  As you can see in the picture above, they are willing to hang out in the same room, which is an improvement over the initial hostilities.  Baby steps.  Baby steps. 

Guys, I'd like to hang out with:

I just love humpy boys with blank-eyed expressions.  Intelligence is so overrated.

It's still warm enough for tanning.  Get busy.

He looks like he would be a load of laffs.

Extra beefy.

... and extra firm.

I appreciate how they have roped him and his buttchops off for crowd control, no doubt.

Honey, I think you dropped your parachute.

In Which Flights of Angels, Baby, Flights of Angels

 

When an old friend dies, they take with them all the shared vocabulary and jokes you had.  Secret Agent Fred died Wednesday afternoon.  We had almost 30 years of dumb, inside wisecracks that no one else would have found particularly amusing, but which meant a lot to our tiny little brains.  Now I will no longer be able to say to anyone, "zip your clam."  Well, I suppose I could say it, but the charm of it would be missing.

I don't think I ever knew anyone as capable of living life on his own terms as Fred was.   He was funny and charming and I will miss him.  Zip your clam, bitch.