Because Viking Booty, That's Why

I haven't posted anything about True Blood this year because either a) you've been watching it and already know what tragic hash it has degenerated into or b) you're not watching it and don't care.   I think both camps will be satisfied with a report that Alex Skarsgard answers the universe's booty call by appearing naked on a chaise atop a glacier in Sweden.   And then bursts into flames.

Why?  Who the fuck knows?  It's True Blood.  Gibberish happens.  More importantly, let me repeat, Alex Skarsgard, naked.  What more do you need?

mrpeenee Has Fallen

You know how there are movies which you can actually feel removing points from your I.Q. as you watch them?  Which brings us to Olympus Has Fallen, a ripe piece of tripe that rolled out onto an unsuspecting mrpeenee this evening because once it started I was too lazy to change the channel to something better, something like Are You Being Served?

I had initially thought anything with Gerard Butler in it had to have something going for it.

I was wrong.  Plus he plays the whole thing wearing a long sleeve shirt which makes me suspect there was Spanx involved under it all.  And Angela Bassett, for god's sake, who certainly deserves better.  As do I.

Back Again

We had a swank hotel with this nice, big city view.

You know, Baltimore's not bad.  The architecture is charming, the food was great, even the weather, usually defining the word "miserable"in August, was balmy.  We got to hang out with Diane von Austinburg, who was there on a conference and that's always amusing.  We even got to see some losers tarted up in ridiculous costumes for the My Pretty Pony convention, the point of which still eludes me.

Sort of a Grey Gardens kind of thang going on.

Dealing with Secret Agent Fred's house, which was the point of the trip, was much more rough.  The place is seriously damaged and it was wrenching for Fred to see it.  He and his partner had lived there for years and made it a sweet little love nest before the partner died, so preparing it for sale would have been hard enough, without seeing the damage a couple of leaks had wrecked on the floors and ceilings.

But even with all that, there's a bright spot, and that would be Ask the Cool Cookie.  Cookie has launched himself into this project with the enthusiasm of a drag queen at the MAC counter at Macy's. On sale.  He was charming and funny and we all went out for some of the best crab cakes I've ever had because, you know, Maryland and all that.  Our friends, including his charming husband E, were very patient with us as we talked blog talk and gossiped about you guys.  Terribly amusing.

Best of all, we got to rescue a bunch of Fred's paintings from the attic there.  I've always loved Fred's work and this was a chance to see a bunch of them I wasn't familiar with, so yay.

Also, I went out for coffee about 5:00 one morning. I just pulled on some baggy chinos with no underwear since I was just running across the street and you know, even Diana Ross goes out with no makeup sometimes.  It seemed like a good idea right up to point where a benchful of Ladies at the bus stop felt free to comment, loudly, about my junk.  Astonished I looked over at them ( really, never a good idea) and the ringleader yelled "Yeah, you know we talking about you, white boy."  I scurried past, simultaneously mortified and immensely flattered.  I was cat called!

Baltimore.

Baltimore Bound

I mentioned in the post below that Ask the Cool Cookie has been helping get Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore in shape to be sold.  Cookie has been an absolute champ, dealing with plumbers, floor refinishers, dry wallers and various other miscreants.  He writes cheerfully about scraping off peeling paint and nosy neighbors and the fact that there are no working toilets.  He assures us that you cannot pee behind the garage because it's full of poison ivy back there, a report I, for one, am willing to take his word on.

Fred had entrusted his house to a property management company who seems to have taken their responsibilities with astonishing insouciance since they allowed two leaks to destroy the floors and the foyer ceiling.  Hence the no water policy and hence the no working toilets and hence Cookie back behind the garage.  I prefer not to dwell on what happens when one discovers the poison ivy mid-pee.

Nevertheless, Fred and I are off Friday morning to Baltimore (Charm City) in order to meet Cookie (I'm looking forward immensely to that,) pack up the last of Fred's stuff and attempt to avoid the poison ivy.  I have assured both Fred and Cookie I plan on pissing in the front yard, I don't know why anyone would be surprised.

Coincidentally, Diane von Austinburg will be there for a conference, so that will be amusing.  I had gathered this was work related for her, but now Cookie has emailed that there's a My Pretty Pony convention scheduled for next week, which seems awfully suspicious.

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.