6

So this is mrpeenee's sixth birthday.  I have no idea how these things happen.

I originally started this whole thing only because I wanted to comment more easily on Thombeau's long gone and most lamented Fabulon and at the time, Blogger made it easier to sign in if you had your own blog.  I still miss Fabulon.

Anyway, after that things just sort of got out of hand.  I certainly never imagined I'd make friends here, connections that would be a great comfort during those dark times around  R Man's death.  It helped a lot.

And now I have people I've never physically met who have opinions about my sex life and decorating and cat (appropriately, I'm typing this without my right thumb because of a big ol' gash on it from Saki. I swear I am sending him back to Cat Jail.)  And commenters.  I love comments.

And muscle pussy. 

In six years, I have outlasted that pissy queen who used to just post comments so he (or she) could deride my grammar.  I would like to point out Diane von Austinburg is a professional editor and if she can suck up my fondness for gerunds and erratic punctuation, I think everybody else should too.

I have stuck it out through the creepy infatuation of my stalker who used to post coyly and too-affectionate notes and tried to pick comment fights with bloggers I actually admired like Mitzi and Mean Dirty Pirate.  Of all the nerve! I actually turned to MJ from Infomaniac about him (which should tell you how unnerved by him I was) and her advice to ignore him and he would eventually go away was quite right.

Lots of muscle pussy.

We have all lasted long enough for the return of Cafe Muscato, which is most appreciated.

Also, through the magic of bloglandia, I have been able to dragoon Ask the Cool Cookie into helping with Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore and a big thank you to him for that.

Blogs.  They're handier than you might think.

Lots and lots of Muscle Pussy

Dolls, Dolls, Dolls

I may have mentioned before I have a bad back.   Much badness of back, in fact.  I deal with it by complaining (the main reason for this blog) and lots and lots of daily vicodins.  Vicodin is a miracle drug composed of hydrocodone (yay) compounded with either Tylenol or ibuprofin (so very not yay.)  I alternate between the two to avoid poisoning myself because, well, because I don't want to poison myself.

Everything's fine until Walgreens fucked my refill last week and suddenly I'm left with only the Tylenol one and I'm reduced to taking half the dosage I usually do.  I was worried about some withdrawal nightmare like that scene in Lady Sings the Blue with Diana Ross in the bughouse. EEks.  But no, because I am apparently tougher than Diana Ross and Billie Holiday combined.  Or maybe I am not shooting heroin.  Could be.

Anyway, what actually happened was all the little aches and pains from being a crotchety old man rose to the surface; everything I've bumped or bruised or banged up has come back to haunt me.  Ow. Ow. Ow. Owowowowowowow.

When I meditate, I concentrate on each part of my body in turn, start with my head and work down to my feets.  Typically what little focus I can scrape up is distracted by random thoughts like

• Do I need more orange juice?
• How come the professor couldn't fix the boat to get them off Gilligan's Island?
• How hard would it be to spread a rumor on the web that MJ from Infomaniac is really a man?
• Is Saki scratching the leather chair?
• What's that noise?

Things like that.

Now, each body part has to compete with all the ouchie ones.  I'm trying to concentrate on my right shoulder and my left little toe chimes in to remind me I broke it thirty years ago falling naked down the stairs of a bathhouse in Seattle.  Shouting at it to shut up is one thing when I'm here at home alone with the cat, another completely when I'm in the steam room at the Kabuki spa.

Finally, after several very firm discussions with the pharmacist, I got all my doses back in a row and the sun is all shiny and I am back to slowly destroying my liver and kidneys.  Get to work, slacker bitches, that's what you're there for.

If I had more muscles, they would just ache more, so it all works out in the end.

Saki Time

When R man and I picked the Evil and Adorable Saki out of the lineup at cat jail (aka Animal Care and Control, aka the pound,) the technician there estimated his age to be about three years.  That seemed really unlikely to me, his face still looked almost like a kitten and his complete lack of restraint seemed very adolescent.

Our vet backed me up and thought he was about nine months.  Since that was April of 2008, we decided his birthday was July 7, 2007: 7/7/7.  What could be more lucky than a kitty who had moved from the streets to jail into running the lives of two middle age poofs?

So happy birthday to Saki, destroyer of white leather chairs, hogger of the best place in the bed, and absolute terror of anyone foolish enough to try and pet him.

I claim my cooing at him in my old lady voice "Who's the babiest baby in babytown?" is an attempt to civilize him.  In fact, I just do it to fuck with him and his air of general annoyance when I do so is payback for all the scratches, bites and scars I carry from him, the adorable little shit.

Get Jiggy Wid It

I've been more distracted than usual lately because I stumbled on a web site that allows you to create and solve your own jigsaw puzzles.  It's caused me to not only dig back through all my masterpieces stored on iPhoto, but to actually scan in older pictures as well.  I've found putting the puzzle together forces me to dwell more thoroughly on the picture than just flipping through a stack of them.  Like Georgia O'Keeffe said "to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”   I had to Google that quote, I certainly couldn't remember it accurately.  For that matter, spelling her last name threw me.

So anyway, I've been "publishing" these puzzles so I could solve them (I found out later you don't have to make them public.  Like I care) and now other people are working them.  Doesn't that seem odd?  Like volunteering to watch other people's vacation slides?

You know what the most popular one is?

mrpeenee and R Man walking down Dauphine Street in the French Quarter some long gone Southern Decadence.  What?  These guys have never seen a man in lady's underwear?

And while prowling through all these vanished days with R Man is plenty poignant, there's also lots of regret about wardrobes that have evolved into the past tense.  "Man, I loved that tee shirt" comes up frequently.

I take as a given the cause of all their demises were grease drips down the front that no laundering would ever get out.  I'm a slob.  But my jigsaw working is really improving.

I'm Already Gay Enough

I wish, quite sincerely, that I could more like our blog pal Jon, master of Dolores Delargo Towers and Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle.  Gay Pride celebrations are something Jon looks forward to, embraces in their fullness and enjoys completely.  He is, even as I write this, cutting a big pink and lavender swath through the middle of London.  He is most certainly unlike me already wondering how to go out for coffee tomorrow and avoid Gay Pride entirely.  In San Francisco.  The center of the gay vortex.

I understand Jon has the right attitude, that the celebration is the result of hard work and real sacrifices by better men and women than me who struggled in the face of oppression.  I know the idea of a huge parade and citywide party that lasts for days in honor of sexual deviancy is one which would have amazed and delighted those people.  And yet, I don't want to go.  I feel, keenly, that I am ingrate.

Plus, I'm sure this year's shindig will be unusually full on.  A major victory in the Supreme court is reason enough to celebrate and the timing of it seems almost deliberate.  The weather is even cooperating, unusually balmy and California-y, after a freak summer rain earlier this week cleaned everything up just in time.

I still don't want to go.  My bad.

I think a problem is having been exposed to Mardi Gras for so long and New Orleans' brilliant grasp of how to have a good time.  That's what I want here, the sassy lack of inhibitions, carpe fucking diem, that full throated WHEEEEE.  Certainly, Gay Pride here tries for that, but somehow misses.  Maybe it's the earnest fussing over not hurting anyone's feelings that hides behind the curtain of "inclusiveness."  Maybe it's the corporate sponsorships butting in: "Gay Pride brought to you by Miller Lite, Citibank and Various Other Entities that Would Have Fired Your Gay Ass Fifteen Years Ago if They Knew You were a Cock Sucker."  Although they'd probably have a hard time fitting that on the banner.  Maybe I'm just turned into a grumpy old man who dislikes crowds and fajita stands.  That's it, it's evolution.

So I'm not going.   I am an ingrate and a bad person, but here's what it comes down to:

What we want for Gay Pride:

What we get:

So where can I go for coffee?

Thanks Guys. Go Give Yourselves a Cookie.

So, almost five years ago, R Man and I got married and today, the gubmint finally, as I mentioned over on Cafe Muscato, officially declared our union Not Icky.

Yay.

Traffic Report

I write this in the most hushed tones and from a location that must remain secret for there are Forces out to kill me.  Kill me, I tell you.

Every time I've left the house this week, I've had to deal with drivers who were obviously bent on taking me out, assassins of the road.  Or maybe assholes of the road, same thing, really.

Are they on drugs?  Possibly, although, I personally have driven when I was so loaded I thought my hands were robot powered spiders and done better than these goons.  Are they zombies?  Their lurching progress implies so.  Are they zombies on drugs?  Again, maybe.

Secret Agent Fred and I were attempting to flee the Castro yesterday when we were blocked by a minivan more than double parked.  Sitting athwart 18th Street, it was more like triple parked, or at least 2.5 parked.  It's possible the excess bumper stickers plastered on it had finally gotten to the driver.  Or "driver," I should say.  It was less like an effort at parking and more like someone simply abandoning his car.

And today after piloting around other cars that made the streets a fucking slalom course, I was trapped by two drivers in a fight, possibly to the death, over a parking place.  San Francisco is a tiny place and parking is a premium, but even with my longtime experience, I was impressed.  The two cars (one was a minivan again.  That's always a bad sign, I think.) were both sort of partially wedged into one spot while their drivers got out to better scream at each other.  I couldn't get past, I couldn't back up, because the car behind apparently thought this was some kind of street theater and as I sat there, I realized, "This is just how innocent bystanders get shot."

Which is when a guy on a bike pulled up and yelled at the screamers that they were douche bags.  It was a perfectly correct assessment, but I thought "And that's just what we need.  Encouragement."  Encouragement or not, finally the minivan gave up and was going to retreat, but by then traffic was so backed up in both directions, he couldn't.  I was seriously considering taking my phone out to play a hand of Yahtzee, but the driver behind me suddenly emerged from his coma to reverse out at top speed like he was Jason Fucking Bourne, followed by me and the minivan.

Just remember, when you come to San Francisco be sure to wear a flower in your hair.  And pack some serious heat.  You might need it.

Cars.  They're only good as props for muscle pussy.  Amiright?