General Hospital

Yesterday was actually mrpeenee and R Man Gay Doctor Day. The 7:00 AM scheduled biopsy meant getting up before dawn. mrpeenee is not at his best before the goddam chickens have even arisen, nevertheless, we got there on time and settled in for a day filled with medical stuff. That's a technical term. Specifically, it comprised another cat scan, a biopsy, and not one, but two x-rays.

Each procedure went terribly smoothly, with long, very long gaps in between. We were there for seven hours. R Man was on a gurney the whole time, hopped up on surgical type drugs. Where, I wanted to ask, are mine, but the nurses were so incredibly sweet and competent I couldn't bring myself to give them any shit.

I had an excellent book for company and my on-going grudge against waiting room decorating to distract me. What is with them? A hospital seems like it would certainly know what is physically comfortable even if they don't have the design skills to say no to pastels and that weird Blandanavian style furniture that seems so omnipresent. But no, seats better suited to McDonald's with big fat depressed people spilling over the sides. I just stood out in the halls, reading.

Also, I noticed a complete dearth of cute guys. Hospitals are usually staffed with guys who look like some cross between soap opera stars and porn actors, but this time not a single bit of eye candy for distraction. I think word may have gotten out about me.

So anyway, we won't know anything about the biopsy result until next week. Stay tuned.

SF Sunday, Peenee Style

Thank you all so much for your responses about R Man's delicate condition. We don't know exactly what it is yet, but I'm sure it's delicate. Your thoughts, prayers, chants, snarks, are most appreciated. Truly. It's great to have friends who turn to so promptly, so yay for you guys.

In order to nurse the old thing along, we slept terribly late this morning (it was, as SecretAgentFred pointed out, "The second Saturday of the weekend.") and then repaired to Foreign Cinema for a late lunch. Deeeelish.

I wore my striped sockies for that Clown Foot effect because I am, you know, gay.

We had a tableful of cute guys next to us for conversational fodder. It's possible they were porn stars. If not, it certainly was a waste of good pussy.

And the backyard is in full, blasto bloom.

To reiterate: blue skies, shinin' above, etc., etc....

Blue Skies, Shinin' on Me

I've been listening to lots of Dinah Washington lately.

Especially the old Gershwin song, Blue Skies. Just last week, while ambling over to some enchiladas for lunch, I was singing the bit about

"Never saw the sun shinin' so bright,

Never saw things goin' so right"

Obviously, I was riding for a fall, at least that's what I thought looking back on my carefree, humming along days when we discovered on Wednesday that R Man has a tumor in his lung.

Since we bought our house 13 years ago, R Man has had to endure cancer, pancreatitis, open heart surgery, and George Bush. I think I can be excused for thinking "Isn't it somebody else's turn?" Apparently not. We're scheduled for a biopsy on Tuesday to see what's up in lungland.

I know from past experience when I'm confronted with bad news, I immediately panic, flailing around mentally the better to imagine all sorts of terrible things; once that passes (fortunately, pretty quickly. It's just lucky that I don't have the attention span for long term consternation,) I drop into a sort of myopic numbness. One step at a time, just focusing on what I have to get through right now.

I also start cleaning. By the time R Man recovered from his heart surgery, our house gleamed, the envy of Martha Stewart. At one point, I vacuumed the window screens. And not just our little home. While trapped in various waiting rooms, I will straighten magazines, throw away trash and, if stuck there long enough, rearrange the furniture to my liking. I have, more than once, considered asking for a hammer so that I could re-hang the art. Receptionists all over San Francisco look at me warily when we show up now.

Do I think everything is going to be OK? Oddly, I do, sincerely. The good thing about getting through bad times is that you're sort of toughened up for new ones. We'll see. Anyway, I gotta go, I think I need to scour the bathtub.

Princesspeenee, reporting in

But why can't I be a Lady of Leisure? I have the attitude, I have the wardrobe (three pair of cashmere socks and some almost-clean tee shirts,) I have stacks of things to sit around reading, and I had 18 petit fours, but they seem to have been eaten. If it wasn't for this stupid "employment" thing, I would be good to go. Just this afternoon, I was trapped in a committee meeting and thought, "Now this, this is the wrong life."

Here is some boy beef, complete with Stupid Hair, the bane of cute boys everywhere.

Roxy

Did you know Bryan Ferry (aka “God’s Gift to My Ears”) released an album in 2007 of covers of Bob Dylan songs? The things that go on when I’m not paying attention. Having stumbled on that on Pandora radio, I wandered over to the Wikipedia article on Roxy Music and discovered a lot of cheap talk about the band reuniting for a new album. News that made me squeal and leave a tiny, tiny, hardly noticeable wet spot on my chair.

Then, farther down in the article Ferry casually denied that any such fabulosity was possible. From Wikiland: “However in November 2009 Ferry stated that there will be no new Roxy Music record: ‘It was overly publicised, when Brian Eno and I went into the studio together, that we were re-forming. We worked together for a few days, weeks maybe, and I decided I didn’t really want to do a Roxy thing. It’s going to be a solo record. Brian plays on a couple of tracks though.

‘I don't think we'll record as Roxy again... But it would be great to do some more Roxy Music concerts, although I don't think Eno will be involved.’

”

Why? Because he loves to break my heart. But I continue to love him anyway. It’s the Judy Garland in me.

Rescue

Bob, over at I Should be Laughing, pointed me towards this, and I’m sharing it here because they told me to at the end of the video.

I am just crusty enough not to cry, but I thought about it.

Never Say Die

Perhaps, those of you with a bent in that direction, of a certain age and with a fondness for feelthy pictures will remember the monoymous Bruno from Colt Studios, back more than thirty years ago in the Gay Dark Ages. Of course you do, he had the most beautiful chest hair ever visited on man by the gods. Here, maybe this will refresh your memory:

Somehow, during my recent research on economic platforms for marketing small businesses, I ran across a more recent snap of the old darling. What? It's the internet, it happens. And you know, he's still looking mighty, mighty fine.

The old roue.

Turn to mrpeenee for all your updates on the porn. Speaking of which, I would like to publicly thank the good folks over at www.smutjunkies.com because they are the best source for smut research going.