Via con Whatshisname

I’m being exiled to Sacramento Monday morning for a week-long training on how to process loans. I think I’ve mentioned how very feeble I am at math (I’m a visual kind of gal) so the prospect is daunting, to say the least. Plus, Sacramento? And not even really Sacramento, but some forsaken suburb of it. My sensitive nature shudders. Anyway, I won’t have access to the wonderful world of the internet, so no scintillating insights into the world of mrpeenee until Friday, and that’s only if I survive.

In the meantime, I’ve put together a photo page of my favorite porn stars at here. Your assignment: compare and contrast.

See ya Friday.

The Lady In Red

As a very small child, I remember being fascinated by this cartoon on the Saturday morning Bugs Bunny show. I’m sure it was hacked into bits to fit into that format since the original is more than seven minutes long so a big thank you to YouTube for allowing me to appreciate its cleverness. What’s not to love? Glam cockroach nightclub and flaming parrots, that’s still my idea of a good time.

OLPS

When R Man and I were living la vie homosexual in New Orleans, we did so half a block from the Ursulines convent, an historic structure that included the former chapel of Our Lady of Prompt Succor. Of course, this seemed wholly appropriate to me since I too had been known by similar names. I was never able to snag a t-shirt with that title, but now, I’ve found it here . I’m getting mine in orange, cause it’s sassy.

I Know a Place Petula Clark

“I Know a Place” is a song that always demands doing the pony in a pair of white go-go boots, and yet, Petula Clark always, always remained firmly earthbound in sensible flats. Amazing. The youth among us may ask themselves “Who is this bitch? Where are her go-go boots?”

In her time, Ms Clark managed to be one big star by being a bridge between post-war big bands and rock and roll. The beat is the greatest there. O yeah. Get down, bad bitch Petula, get down.

Plus Ed Sullivan recommends safe driving. Well, OK.

Beefcake Zzzzzzzzzzs

OK, no posts tonight. I've broken out in hives from an allergic reaction to something. My doctor doesn't know what it is, but loaded me up with antihistamines that have made me so sleepy I'm typing this while unconscious. Not that that really affects either the content or my typing, but I'm stumbling off to bed anyway.

If you need anything, please contact our cabin boy, Appolinaris, pictured above. But there better be no stains when I wake up tomorrow.

Panty Parade

The divine Diane von Austin berg would like us to believe she sees a parallel between the Vuitton photo from the New York Times story on underwear as outerwear and the shot of mrpeenee's sashay up Dauphine Street in the French Quarter after some long ago Southern Decadence. It's possible she's flattering me, it's equally possible she's deluded. You know how she is.

For the record, I am not the one with the muffin top.

Crazy Guy, Aisle 9

I was at Safeway yesterday afternoon and some crazy guy in the produce section just started screaming. No words, just aargh, aargh, aargh, one of those crazy guys. This being such a big tough city, everyone in the vicinity immediately turned and marched off. I don't think it even crossed any of our minds to check on the guy, to call 911 , to respond in anyway except to be vaguely irritated. Enough of this kind of thing and you learn that involving yourself with him will not relieve him in any way and only make things worse, certainly for you, probably for him. Screaming crazy guys are like car alarms, an annoying part of the background noise of life. I know that's so wrong, I just don't know how to overcome the self preservation instinct that makes me back away so he won't hit me with a butternut squash.

Plus, they were out of lentils. How can a grocery store be out of lentils?