In Which We Shave

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mrpeenee needs a shave

I don’t really have a beard.  Instead, I have this whispy collection of bald spots and bristles erratically sprouting over the real estate on my face upon which real men grow their beards.

Not me.  I have never attempted a beard of any sort.  Not during the earthy demands of hippy life, the tyranny of the Castro Clone gay look, nor the tragic hey day of George Michael.  I’ve always known it would just end in tears, so why bother.

I have, however, occasionally, just stopped shaving.  I hesitate to say everyone hates shaving, because I know if I do, someone will say, a little too breathlessly and fervently, “I love it.”  But I believe I speak for most if us when I say, breathlessly and fervently, shaving absolutely sucks.  It must be the only task that is both tedious and nerve wracking.  Let your mind wander off for even a millisecond and suddenly you’re in a remake of Saw.  I have been shaving for 50 years and apparently I still cannot do it right since I emerge from shaving bleeding and weeping regularly.

So every now and then, I will declare a holiday from scraping my face.  For the most part, it is no big deal.  Since my beard is not only thin, but recalls my blonde childhood by being a pale, mousy beige, and thus ups its see-through quality, it can be hard to tell that I have stopped.  The hairiest I ever get to is that dashing got-any-spare-change? look.

I go merrily along, appreciating the relief for a few days until abruptly, I CANNOT STAND IT ONE MORE SECOND.  I will be minding my own business, thinking deep thoughts, and suddenly realize that I can feel my own follicles, curling around the corner of my mouth, trapping god knows what.  I scurry to the shower and scape away, sort of sullen and relieved at the same time.

Beards, and the men who’ve got ’em.

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Life in Corona Time

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I feel like this post should be read as if it were some last pathetic journal entry, discovered in a bombed out bunker.  I wasn’t going to write about the quarantine since everyone else already has, but what else is there?

San Francisco is under something called Shelter in Place which means….? I’m not sure.  “Please lock yourself up?” Maybe?  I had to go to my chiropractor on Tuesday (the first day of the quarantine) and today.  The streets were empty Tuesday (and yet some guy honked at me in the crosswalk.  Nobody else around but him and me and he’s on his horn, which finally proves my long held theory that some people just like to honk) and then today the crowds were light, but almost back to normal.  I guess 3 days is the limit people can be good.

I do hope I don’t die during this, I would hate to be remembered as dying during the Great Toilet Paper Panic.  Do people think all this 2 ply is going to protect them from infection?  And now the store downstairs is out of ketchup.  How am I supposed to shelter without ketchup?

What’s most striking about this crisis, as Diane von Austinburg and I agreed, is how very little it disturbs my quotidian routine.  Don’t leave your house?  Check.  Try not to interact with other people?  Check.  Wash your hands like some OCD afflicted lunatic.  I’m on it.  Turns out I’ve been social distancing for years and just never had a fancy term for it.

Every day, some new directive seems to pop up: my favorite cafe that was my daily retreat has now gone to to-go service only and I expect them to be closed any day now. While things are mostly sort of normal, I do have a sense that I’m always behind the curve on the weirdness around us.  The deserted streets, all the closed businesses, the looming sense that it’s all going to get much worse.  Is this the opening shots of a zombie movie or is it just Thursday afternoon?  By the time I process whatever screwball has been tossed at me, there’s another one in-coming.  I figure I’m about 3 days behind by now, still rolling with Monday’s punches.

Still, even in these murky times there are the occasional bright spot.   Thank god for naked mens

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Red light district

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If you held a candle up beside one ear, could you see it through the other?

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It’s an emergency

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An old favorite here at mrpeenee’s International H.Q.

 

 

Coned

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Poor Saki.

He had 2 benign tumors that had recently grown so large, they were probably going to demand to vote in November, so I decided to have them removed.  I had a vague image of the procedure being sort of “snip, snip” but it turned out to be more “slice and dice.”  Great, big ol incisions and now Saki has to wear one of those stupid cone collars and he is so very unenthused about it.

Initially flipped out, he calmed down somewhat, but is still not wholly resigned to it.  He keeps trying to rub his chin on the floor or doorways to mark and winds up just banging around.  Nothing like the sweet quiet of a late evening when I’m just on the cusp of snoozing out when a sudden KA-WHONK shreds the night.  Not jarring at all.

His attempts at eating are even more disturbing.  He sort of wedges the cone up into his food and does his best.  That results in a smear streak of old cat food decorating the edge of the cone.  I keep cleaning it off, but he still manages to sling bits of old tuna when he shakes his empty little head.  Plus, there is bits of dinners past now lodged down in the bottom of the collar.

He is a devoted groomer, which is odd since he is also always sort of a slob.   He usually digs in sucking his toes and washing down with a gusto that shakes the bed, but now all he can do is lick the inside of the cone.

Overall, I feel sorry for the poor little rat of course.  It’s not comfortable to be chopped on (they sent some pain medicine home that I squirt down his throat. He’s on the dope.) and so clumsy to deal with the collar.  But I also think it looks sort of funny.  Because I am a Bad Person.   The longer I have to deal with this fucking cone of shame, though, the less amusing it seems.

Men who should be collared by me

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Classy.

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Sassy

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Uhm, massy?

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Lassy? No not lassy

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Gassy, proving this whole rhyming thing was a bad idea.

 

Gay for Pay, Big Time

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Everbody is a fucking editor.

Mikey has demanded I write a post about movies, so here we go.

I have an unswayable opinion about straight men playing gay roles in movies.  It is wrong and needs to stop.  There.  It is nothing short of gay blackface, and while outrage rightfully faces any white actor who tries to portray black or asian or hispanic figures, that indignation runs out when they get to the gay neighborhood.

Queer actors who make the choice to live out instead of hiding who they are have to deal with a great big wall o’ discrimination in getting cast.  They cannot get leading roles in movies with any romantic action even though producers like to talk about straight actors playing gay is “just acting.”  So when one of the very, very few leading gay roles comes up, it seems they would be the natural choice, but no, we get Armie Hammer because, I don’t know, no queer is as good at being homo as Mr. Hammer.

And then once they’re cast, there is the immediate onslaught of media pieces along the general lines of “You’re so BRAVE to take on the role of a sexual deviant.”  These stories and interviews all reinforce the ick factor that so many straight people view homosexuality with.  A classic of this genre is the “What did you do to get ready to kiss another man?” questions.  Because two men kissing is so disgusting, any actor would have to go through special mental hoops to do it, like eating feces on screen.

Besides, as an out gay man, I want to see myself represented, I’d like to see more queers in the movies I watch.  So straight guys, stay in your own fucking lane.

Possibly homo guys.  Definitely naked

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A major star.

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“I’m still big….”

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Speaking of which, look who’s ready for his close up

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In Which We Recall Times Gone By

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I wonder if I need a manicure?

An excerpt from a dialogue between mrpeenee and his evil but adorable Cat Saki:

“FUCK YOU, WHAT ARE YOU DOING PUKING AGAIN?’

Do you really need any more details?

The recent run-up to the new decade (perhaps you heard?) reminded me that this fall will mark the 40th anniversary of my moving to New Orleans.  How is that possible?  People I ran the streets with now have grown grandchildren old enough to begin their own career of misspent youth.  But theirs will not be as hilarious as mine, so hah hah, because that rockem, sockem, ridiculously carefree New Orleans is long gone.  They are welcome to the pale reflection that exists now; I will remain the crazy old man in the street screaming “It use to be better.”

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Recollections also bring back the much less charming time of 20 years ago and Y2K.  I know, right?

 

All that brouhaha was bitterly important to me because the federal agency I worked for, SBA, was the agency in charge of the federal government’s official response to it and since I was the media guy for San Francisco, I was the point man here for SBA’s idiocy.  Happy times.  Many of us understood that the bigger, more important bureaus had recognized this for the trouble it was and simply ducked, passing the hot potato until it wound up the hands of our moronic administrator, a former weather girl from Miami.

The proposition, that computers would somehow universally fail on January 1, 2000, was problematic because either a) it was correct and the crisis would hit because we had failed to avert it or b) nothing would happen (spoiler alert: pick Door Number 2) and we would look like over reactive numb nuts.

Particular to me was the fact that I was convinced it was all over hyped nonsense, mostly since I am cynical, but also because I figured if it was a real looming disaster, SBA would not be in charge of it.

So cue hysterics from our head office in Washington, demanding we get “aggressive coverage” of the weekly press release they spewed out, bleating about all kinds of bullshit.  In our increasingly annoying conference calls, my colleagues in other offices confirmed the media already had all the Y2K bullshit they were interested in, but being in San Francisco meant I had Silicon Valley down the street laughing at us.

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New Years rolled around, as it does, and, what do you know, the world did not collapse.  The Washington office sent out one last pathetic press release saying, in effect, “Well, ok, nothing happened, but it could have….”  I deleted it and sat through the last conference call only unmuting it in order to occasionally say “Yeah, I’m still here.

Guys to have on hand in an emergency.

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Heat and serve

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Don’t be shy.

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A resourceful guy is always a welcome addition.

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If you need us, we’ll be in the bunker.

 

 

In Which mrpeenee Snuggles In

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Is there anything cozier than spending a rainy afternoon eating macaroni and cheese with the cat snoozing on the couch while looking down at the rainy streetscape below?  Spoiler alert: the answer is no.

There seems to be sort of a small school of painting which features just this kind of day in early 20th century Paris and London.  Lots of black umbrellas and black cars and wet, black pavement and, of course, black clouds.  Somebody was making a fortune on charcoal gray pigment.  The view from my living room has that same almost monotone kind of feeling with the added charm of the hills disappearing into the fog.

Of course, this time of year helps with that mood.  This week between Christmas and New Year’s isn’t really a holiday, but it’s not much of anything else, either.  So just drift off and let the drizzle have its way with you.

Still looking for some stay-at-home inspiration? Howzabout these boys?

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Don’t these two gentlemen look alarmingly alike?  Is this some kind of CGI madness?  Is he sucking off his clone?  Was time travel involved?  Is it science fiction or porn?  Or sci-fi porn?

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I used to see this beefy guy in the Golden Gate YMCA steam room occasionally, but that was decades ago, which would seem to be when this photo was taken. That means I can vouch for its historical accuracy.

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Does this guy’s skin have any pores?  Apparently not, but he seems to doing fine without them, so, ok.

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A rainy afternoon, crisp white sheets, and a serious boy with a big, fat cock.  What more do you want?  Besides a bag of Doritos.

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You know how I love a big, dumb lug.

 

Well, Thank Goodness That’s Over

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This is my favorite time of the entire miserable Holy Season of Macy’s Making Their Annual Numbers.  I just got back from my daily trip to Peet’s Cafe and I also tied up shopping at the grocery and Walgreen’s.  The cat and I are cozily tucked in and I feel safe in assuming I will not have to venture out until after Xmas, which means I am at last free from the auditory shackles of Christmas fucking music.  As I point out annually in the sincerest gratitude, at least it doesn’t trail off.  Come Boxing Day and carolers are told to zip it.  Yeah, thanks a lot, see ya next year, piss off.

I know I whine about this every year, but who doesn’t?  This annual blast of puking and mewling, both scared and profane, grates on everyone, but most of you suck it up and try to ignore it.  I unleash one teensy editorial remark against Baby It’s Cold Outside and suddenly people turn on me, letting fly with “Scrooge” and “Grinch”.  Listen, I am OK with being a misanthrope year round; it’s just the onslaught of Bing Crosby’s swinging update of Silver Bells, or any version of Let it Snow, or some ill advised at ethnically diverse ditty, or an Irish/Cajun folk cover of Rudolf the Red Nosed Patsy that makes my support of the War on Christmas so prominent.  Let us not even speak of the Mariah Carey abomination.

And now for something more tasty for your mouth:

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Put that in your stocking, Santa Baby

 

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A little classical reference to try and make the joint a little more classy

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Because doesn’t everyone start dreaming of tropical beaches about this time of year?

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Perspective is everything.

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And finally, a christmas present for Mikey.

Scenes from the Glorious War on Christmas

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Wandering aimlessly through the depths of www has provided us with

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How I feel these days.

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I actually remember this photo from centuries ago in Honcho.  I thought he was pretty hot then and I still do.

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Did Roy just kick over that tree?  Are Dale’s knockers somewhere below her ribcage?  Does Trigger look sort of embarrassed by the whole thing?  SO many questions.

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Speaking of Honcho, this is a very accurate parody of the phone sex ads that kept those magazines afloat, but this one is better.  Waiting for you!

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You’re not the boss of me.

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The question we’ve all wondered.

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Did I ask you?

And now, naked guys of the yuletide

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Winner of the Fallen and I Can’t Get Up Award

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Next to godliness baby, next to godliness

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I think we should all send up a brief prayer of gratitude that the era of the man bun seems to have passed.  Except for this goon.

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Mixed signals.

That’s an Order

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I was pillaging around on Tumblr, awash in its sea of Monster Pricks and the Men Who Have Them

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What a lug.

when I stumbled on this little eye opener:

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Had I ever considered the possibility that this rule exists?  No I had not.  Have I now spent some time brooding over it?  Indeedy do.  Consider me stunned.  I cannot come up with an example that is contrary to it.  I’m sure somewhere there is some phrase that contradicts the truth of it, because English exists as a language only to be at odds with itself.   Weirdo rarities aside, this statement seems right on the money and succinct, too.

I have no idea what the “green great dragon” bit is about, though.

Mens whose adjective list needs to include humpalicous

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humpalicous and agile.

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humpalicous and mature.

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humpalicous and corn fed and a rhino dick

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humpalicous and Bootylicious

 

In Which We Return to the Old Country

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My father died Sunday and so I am going back to Texas.  I am sad at the event, but not particularly distraught; he was, after all, 95 so this is hardly a shock.  Diane von Austinburg, whose father also died this year, commented that it was an odd sensation, a combination of sadness and sort of relief.  My father had been disabled by dementia and Alzheimer’s to the point he barley recognized me when I saw him in October.

My niece Lotus and other friends have reached out to me to be solicitous and supportive.  I appreciate their concern.  A number of these chats have involved a certain amount of surprise at my sanguine attitude.  Sorry.  Again, this was something we all saw coming from far off and were well prepared for.  He had had a very long ,very happy life and he had no suffering at the end.  It is a pattern I hope to emulate.

So I am returning for… a funeral?  Maybe?  My brother Ed, who as the eldest has always been in charge and who has been handling the various and sundry emergencies of my father’s last few years like an absolute saint, announced there was not going to be a funeral.  My father is being cremated so Ed seems to feel one is not necessary.  I am surprised at my sense that we do need one.  Although I have never been sentimental, I still felt sort of at loose ends.  But old patterns remain and I automatically deferred to Ed.  I’m 64 years old, but I’m still the little brother.

After stewing along like that for a while, I remembered that I am also an adult equipped with free will and that if I wanted a funeral, nothing was stopping me from pulling one together myself.  My job at SBA had for years included organizing events, so whipping up a wake was no trouble at all.  My father had always loved taking the entire family out for dinners (an event which could include up to 20 people sometimes) and so I will be hosting dinner for any and all at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. It seems appropriate.

Less appropriate, probably, is my usual parade of humpy naked guys.  I had thought about skipping them, out of some kind of respect and then decided I wanted them in here.  I am not going to go so far as to claim “He would have wanted it this way,”  but I’m queer, I have never been exactly a model of decorum and have spent my adult life being transgressive.  Besides, plenty of my readers only come here for the dick pics.  In fact, Mikey, from CB, chided me after the last post for insufficient stiff wieners.  My apologies.

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Did I mention where I am?

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Especially for Mikey, who likes ’em big and thick.  But who doesn’t?

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And, again, I have just given up trying to find naked mens who have escaped PhotoShop.

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I love these normal looking schmoe guys with a nice dick who have worked their bodies up into something admirable.  From schmoe to WHOA.