I am so adept at wasting time that I can’t even get up a post about my birthday on my actual birthday. Yes Monday, April 5th, was the day, not just for me but for Bette Davis, Spencer Tracy, and Gregory Peck. It’s a big day for big names. Also, apparently, for procrastination.
So how did I celebrate my anniversary? At half past midnight on the sacred day, I got out of bed to pee and managed to step on my glasses and break them. The very first thing of the very first day of my 66th year. I refuse to regard it as an omen. I had been thinking for a while I needed a new prescription for the glasses since the world has been steadily getting fuzzier and fuzzier. This just pushed me in the right direction.
Hot Foot, Drum Stick (aka The Children, I decided they needed jazzier names) and Super Agent Fred had come over the Saturday before and we went up to the rooftop garden for scones and champagne and lots of chit chat. It was more low-key than the swelligant event it sounds like, but it was lots of fun.
And now tomorrow I get my second shot. Quite a birthday present. I’m sort of surprised at how thrilled, excited, and pleased I am to get all the vaccination behind me. Shoot ’em up baby.
Anyway, you just get old and birthdays are no big deal. This one has had everything I wanted and then some. Thrills, chills, shots, and scones. What more could I want?
And now birthday suits:
Hey. Get off your phone and get on my dick.
It’s been sunny, but chilly here in San Francisco. I look forward to more basking temps such as Mr. Fat Dick here is enjoying.
I like your jock. Did your granny crochet it for you?
I was talking to Miss Lady Girl Thang and I told her, I said to her, I sez, “Honey, that choker doesn’t go with anything. Not just anything you’re wearing, but anything in the entire universe.” Honestly, she’s a mess.
So I was hanging out with Pepper Spray and I had to tell her, “Honey, you can either wear Burberry plaid or those hideous patterned stockings, but you can’t do both.” Bitch is a walking dumpster fire.
This is my ideal birthday present, if you’re still wondering.
Crisp white sheets and a big muscley ass, that’s what we like. Amirite?
Gaydar. I hate the word itself as well as the concept behind it. I think it reduces gay men to precious, magical creatures who use our magical powers to discover other precious, magical creatures to suck our dicks. Speaking as a dick sucker, I can attest we use the same indictors everyone else does to find potential sodomites: body posture, attention, eye contact (oh definitely,) and the always popular micro reactions. Did you know your pupils dilate when you look at someone you’re attracted to? We all see these things, but only notice them on a subconscious level because they’re so subtle.
For the history of the gay world (which is also the history of the world, coincidentally) queers have had to rely on these subtle hints exclusively until very recently, unlike straight boys who have always had the entire society rooting for them to go root. Not to mention a mother trying to set you up so you can finally pop out a couple of grandchildren. So yes, we have had to develop the ability to recognize each other without the benefit of all the signals having an opposite sex provides. But that does not mean we possess some mystical beam that tells us infallibly who is and isn’t a fellow traveller.
Gaydar pretty much only comes up when some woman demands that I use mine to see if some guy is bent in the homo manner. “Is he gay?” they whisper about some new co-worker, or celebrity, or (worst of all) some dude they’re sexually interested in. “I don’t know, why don’t you ask him,” I would reply irritatedly. “Gaydar doesn’t exist,” I would usually expand, even though I had already determined whether he was or not. I know, hypocrite. But there is a difference between being tolerated as a gay man and being accepted and refusing this whole “gaydar” bit seems to me like a part of being accepted, which is what I demand.
When I first started at SBA, I was introduced around our office of about 30 people. Over the following years I worked there, of the 6 or so men I initially pegged as queer, all but one eventually confirmed my initial diagnosis. And even that one turned out to be an old hippie who played acoustic guitar at our Chrsitmas parties, so I think my confusion was understandable. So, okay, I can pick ’em and I understand claiming gaydar doesn’t exist when I’ve always used something very much like it to get laid is a contradiction, but a) I contain multitudes and that is not nearly my biggest hypocrisy and b) shut up.
In conclusion, yes, we probably can guess successfully who is and isn’t but that doesn’t mean we want to be your homo geiger counter.
A subset of all this is gay movie stars. I think we all can figure out the poofters on the silver screen (hello Kevin Spacey and Sean Hayes, who did you think you were fooling?) but some, especially historical ones, continue to linger in the questionable end of the spectrum. Here we have the beautiful Guy Madison. He was married twice, had four kids, girlfriends, all of which point, of course, towards straight boy. But…. But, he was a client of Henry WIlson, the Hollywood talent agent who groomed gormless but hunky young men into stars. His client list included Rock Hudson, Tab Hunter, Nick Adams, and many other really pretty, mildly talented guys who were frequently queers and pretty much always pieces of ass for Henry. So maybe, Guy was bisexual, maybe he just understood how to get ahead in show biz. But in many images of him, the love that dare not speak its name seems pretty damn loud, much like the one below. To me this picture speaks volumes and what it says is “I will suck your dick until sperm shoots out my ears.”
Other guys on my radar:
It’s been really warm lately in San Francisco, turning our thoughts towards the beach.
I don’t understand gay men who announce, arrogantly, that they don’t like “pretty men.” It’s just their loss.
Even better are pretty cowboys.
He seems confused. Maybe he needs my help, my personal attention.
Sometimes, I realize I am just pandering to my Chaturbate readers.
But everybody likes a big, fat, Hispanic dick.
Perhaps you were wondering what the word “gormless” means. Here we present Exhibit A.
Yes, finally, I’ve been vaccinated against Covid 19, with the Pfizer vaccine, to be precise, because that’s what all the best people are getting. And also, that way I can pronounce it Fizzer. Honestly though, as I told the CB gang, it’s been such a long wait that if they had announced the only vaccines they had left were the Costco brand, I would still have rolled up my sleeve.
And I have waited patiently, albeit in a cranky sort of way. I registered with 5 vaccination sites only to find out most of them just linked back to the California main one, but only after requiring you to fill in a bunch of blanks. I signed up and settled back to wait my turn, secure in the sweetly naive belief that they would contact me when the time came because isn’t that what an efficient system would do? Because what is the point of registering otherwise? Of course, as we all now know, “efficient” is not really the word that comes to mind with this system. Or “system” since “random ass fucketry” would be a more accurate description. When Amazon is out of the underwear I want, they put my order on hold and then, when the panties are available, they send me an email, a follow up email, and maybe a couple of more follow ups, and then some suggestions of socks that I might find amusing. Why a vaccine that might save my life is not treated as exhaustively baffles and, in no small part, enrages me.
Once I had given up waiting for the vaccine delivery gods, I started randomly checking in on the sites, stalking them for some available appointment, with the same lack of success. But then, Thursday morning my dear friend Hotfoot texted me to say she had just gotten one and urged me to go snag one too. I did and I give all thanks to her. Coincidentally, Diane von Austinburg, Super Agent Fred, Hotfoot and Brain from over at CB all got our shots over the same 4 day span. It’s a wave of health.
After I had battered my way through the registration process, things went amazingly smoothly. The vaccination site was the Moscone Convention Center downtown, a joint big enough to swallow Disneyland. They had the system laid out to move everyone right along and it was only after I had been there for a while that I realized they must have been handling a couple of hundred people, but you couldn’t tell because the lines were broken up into discreet areas and the social distancing also added to the uncrowded feeling. I feel like social distance may be a trend I could support keeping. The only drawback was the wretched music, bad wedding reception EDM. Even with the 15 minute waiting period, mostly marked by morons trying to negotiate their way out of it, I was there less than 40 minutes.
Of course, once I had gotten my shot, the only excitement remaining was to see what side effects might rear their ugly heads. The Chaturbate Sunday Night Movie Club chimed in one night as Mikey was pulling his big ol pud to voice the reactions they had had. Brain had been achy, Piano’s arm hurt, Bob called the rest of us pussies, I was the only one who had absolutely no side effect. Yay. My second dose is next Saturday and the second ones apparently tend to come with worse reactions, so we’ll see, but I feel very optimistic.
And optimistic is not the only emotion these vaccines have revved up. I was surprised how excited I was by the prospect of finally getting vaccinated and how relieved I was and what a good mood having the whole thing behind put me in. I’m still wearing my mask and avoiding crowds, but it’s with a sense of turning a corner. Again, yay.
Guys I wouldn’t mind injecting
I love the contrast between this tough lunk’s face and his panties.
I also love hoodies. Since San Francisco is always slightly chilly, something keeping my neck warm is mightily appreciated.
Pavel Petel, the courageous Russian muscle pussy model, who died in a car crash last April. RIP.
I worry about boys whose hair weighs more than they do.
Look, I know it’s Photoshop. Sometimes I just don’t care.
Cowboy for Amber.
Lick it sweetie. Lick it for daddy.
Sometimes I find a picture and think “Oh, the CB gang is gonna love this.”
My leisurely lifestyle allows for frequent and deep emersion in the wonders of YouTube. Stop motion animation featuring foul mouthed Barbie dolls in the breathtaking Most Popular Girls in School; various shelter websites rescuing various woebegone animals from horrific situations; renovating hoarders’ houses, they all have their charms, but my absolute favorite is some odd guy in Massachusetts who clears clogged culverts as a past time. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCsCNU-ptlze2tqAJSDeVGNQ (editor’s note: some part of the fabulous changes WordPress launched recently removed the ability to link out to another site any less clumsily than this. Sorry)
Post 10 (I don’t think his name is ever revealed) drives around chasing clumps of leaves and sticks and garbage that block drains and cause floods, frequently of streets, but also out in the astonishingly beautiful country of rural New England. Never has drainage maintenance provided such gorgeous travelogues. His style is low key to the point of flat, never reproaching the cars that dive by splashing him while he goes about improving their streets for free. He is earnest and calm, enthusing only over a whirlpool he creates by raking away a pile of gunk. His patience with the removal is admirable; I know I would simply dive in and start flailing away. But Post 10 is methodical and serene about picking apart some collection of junk. He is the Buddha of the ditch.
He has some training in hydrology and explains the causes and possible outcomes of the blockages. I now know the difference between a culvert and a bridge thanks to the heroic work of Post 10. And he is out in all kinds of nasty weather, thunderstorms, tornado warnings and all the ice and snow and other cold horrors a Massachusetts winter can serve up. I sometimes have to turn the cold videos off, I get too anxious at the sight of him gaily wading about in ice covered streams. Eeks.
I think anyone who was ever a 5 year old boy will identify with the pleasure he gets from mucking about in his boots (I’m sure I am not the only fan who was relieved when he finally got proper waders instead of his rain boots which inevitable filled with cold water.) Watching him clear an obstruction and then film the pond it had created draining away is deeply gratifying. When he kicks a pile of soggy leaves out of the way, you just want to be there giving them what for with him.
His other videos include trains ( I said his affect was inevitable calm, but he does enthuse over a locomotive rumbling by,) abandoned homes, his aquariums, and his collection of lawn mowers and trimmers. When I compared him to a 5 year old boy, I meant it. I am only disappointed there are no videos about LEGOs, cause I would watch them. For once I’m not being snarky. A huge part of the appeal here is the unaffected, genuine pleasure he finds in these simple arenas. He seems like a nice guy, one who is out there cleaning out culverts simply to make the world a better place. 5 stars, 2 thumbs up, a must-see blockbuster.
Other giants who walk among us:
Cause the last sk8r dude was so popular.
Cowboys for Amber
I choose to believe this guy is studying a culvert blockage.
Dave Marshall, a gay rassler from Australia.
A beard for the boys over at Chaturbate. Hey guys.
Cats define the slogan “Fuck around and find out.”
Could probably clear out a big ol clog with that thing.
My sweet, sweet niece Amber sent me a King cake. Sweet. King cakes are an integral part of the weeks long season that precedes Mardi Gras called Carnival. They’re baked with a tiny plastic baby hidden in them. Whoever gets the baby has to host the next party and provide a new King cake the next week and so it goes for each week of Carnival.
These parties are generally held by your friends, or your class, or your office, or your bowling team, or your secret league of super heroes dedicated to protecting the universe from your nemesis. People who grew up there say they would go to school with firm instructions from their mothers not to get the goddam baby. Since, when I lived there, the cakes were notorious for being unpalatable (they were essentially stale white bread with colored sugar icing. It took a lot of beer to choke them down, probably another reason mothers of elementary school kids didn’t want them getting the baby.) Why New Orleans, a city famous for good eating, tolerated such unappetizing fare for so long is a mystery. Shortly after we left for San Francisco, somebody finally woke to the idea you could actually make them taste good by baking a coffee cake complete with plastic baby. I’m still annoyed they waited until I was gone for this revelation.
Since the original ones were so uninspiring tasting, people got sick of them about 3 or 4 weeks into the season; everyone there has stories about parties were no one admitted to getting the baby. The urban myth that holdouts would simply swallow it are universal. Personally, I think some underpaid baker somewhere would simply not put one in every few cakes just to fuck with people, Happy Mardi Gras.
I see on the box that Amber’s came in, the baker now claims whoever gets the baby has a year of good luck ahead. I was very impressed that Amber had found the best baker of King cakes in New Orleans, Gambino’s. When we lived there, before they stumbled on King cakes you could actually eat, Gambinos was famous for their Doberge cake, another local tradition. A multi-layer confection with custard and rich chocolate icing, they are the birthday cakes of choice for New Orleanians. Amber said she sent the cake off a while ago, but it got snagged up in some delivery hell brought on by the freezing weather and a fire at FedEx’s Memphis center. She was concerned the cake would be too old, but one thing I learned for sure was that King cakes are nigh on indestructible. Certainly, this one is delicious and tender.
Since my whole family approaches food with unbridled enthusiasm, Amber sent me two cakes, which is enough for a party of about 40 fatties. I shared one with my neighbors. I thought about explaining the whole baby Jesus in the cake thing, but then I remembered that’s what Google is for.
I was all set to knock out a post whining about trying to get my Covid vaccination. I am registered on 4 different websites, but have no idea when, or if, I’m going to get my shot. But then I reminded myself that we are all in the same frustrating boat and my complaining will not make any of it any better. Instead I decided to talk about food, a subject about which I am enthusiastically all for.
Spending all my time at home, alone except for a cranky old cat (who I now realize is deaf and not just ignoring me like he used to) I have become more aware of my odd habit of becoming obsessed with a particular snack to the exclusion of all others until I get tired of whatever I have been plowing my way through. I know some people trapped by the lockdown have turned to seriously developing their cooking skills with stuff like Goat Cheese Polenta or pates that take three weeks to prepare, but my passions tend more towards the gustatory refinement of a pre-schooler. If it’s bland, I’m wild for it. Over the last year, I have been devoted to instant oatmeal (the kind with tiny little scraps of dried apples,) butterscotch instant pudding, cottage cheese, applesauce, applesauce in cottage cheese, and most recently, sandwich sliced cheddar cheese on saltines.
Part of the appeal of my white trash cheese and crackers charcuterie board was my discovery that folding the slice of cheese in half and then half again and breaking it along the folds creates 4 little cheese pieces exactly the right size to fit on a cracker. Obviously, god was guiding my hand here. Even better was the discovery that they were perfect for stacking into snack towers.
The ideal food for the OCD among us.
So I’ve featured this guy before as a favor for Mikey and then there has always been a lot of squealing from the comments section. Turns out his name is Anthony Varrecchia. Commence squeals.
“I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay….”
I think this photo has graced my blog before, but who’s complaining?
I’m just digging those shades.
To waiters, the phrase “In the weeds” means you’re behind, the chef is insane, your section is the only one populated entirely by screaming children, and maybe you should reconsider prostitution as a source of employment.
Cancelled and cold. If that doesn’t just describe the saddest Mardi Gras ever.
Repeat offenders of this blog may recall that I love Mardi Gras and the Carnival season that precedes it with an untrammeled passion. Carnival was literally the reason I moved to New Orleans, possibly the best decision I ever made and one that changed my life for the better. I reasoned that since I relished Mardi Gras so much it would just be easier for it to come to me instead of the other way around.
And once I was in place, I was delighted to find out Fat Tuesday is the just the cherry on top of a month of giddy good times, the parades and balls and parties and general whoop-ti-do that fill the city. New Orleans is always ready for a drink and a laugh but never as much as during Carnival.
The whole month before is busy with planning, Planning your costume (or planning to plan it and then never getting around to it was my usual technique,) planning for navigating the traffic nightmare that the parades engendered, planning a lie to get out of work, and planning on how to indulge in a non-stop sexual frenzy, but still have time to be out on the streets enjoying the chaos there.
Oh my, the sexual shenanigans of pre-AIDS queer Mardi Gras. In the debrief following one, my dear friend Webb, god bless his bent little soul, one time reported back that he had spent the entire afternoon up on a pool table getting butt fucked by a roving troupe of sodomites. The crowds are so immense that cops pretty much shrug off misbehavior like that and focus more on the army of drunk college kids out on the sidewalks. After a few hours, Webb decided to shove off, but when he climbed down from the table, he couldn’t find his pants, so he just hopped back upon the table (“I had to push this one queen off to make room”) and rode out the rest of the day. So to speak.
So yeah, hearing that the entire madness has been put on Stop-That-You-Dumb-Bitch makes me sad. I know for the many, many fans of Mardi Gras this is like telling a 6 year old there will be no Christmas this year. I feel for you sweetie, but pull your pants up, if you can find them, and start planning for next time because you know 2022 is going to fierce.
Rummaging around on Tumblr, prospecting for pictures of cute mens,
when I stumbled on a bunch of posts about how your enemy is born 53 days after your birthday. Even for the internet, that seems odd, both the mathematical precision and the outcome. My enemy? Like I’m a superhero with a sworn nemesis? But I’m always willing to play along with whatever unlikely pronouncement the world wide web drops in my lap, so I dutifully counted up 53 days from my burfday (April 5 in case you need to start shopping now) and then looked up who was born on May 28. Turns out my list of potential enemies is pretty drab. Dammit.
The likeliest suspect would be Rudy Giuliani, but I wouldn’t really think of him as an enemy, more as just someone I think is an idiot. The only other name from that day that popped out at me was Kylie Minogue. Kylie! How could that Australian pixie be anyone’s enemy? That’s like taking a firm stance against kittens. No thanks.
In the midst of flailing around to figure out what my birthday plus 53 equals, I accidentally found out that April 5 is 53 days from February 11, coincidentally, the date I blundered into this diabolical plot. It was like some kind of insipid Twilight Zone episode. So apparently I am the enemy of somebody born yesterday. The list of possible victims was even less impressive than my enemies. February 11 is the birthday to a really tragic gang of forgettable actors and musicians and completely random “celebrities.” Jennifer Aniston and Natalie Dormer were the brightest lights and could there be a more innocuous duo? Being Jennifer Aniston’s enemy seems like it would be more trouble than it’s worth. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this whole enemy gig.
This whole Find Your Enemy is simply another kind of horoscope. Whenever some writer assigns a random block of the population a bunch of personality traits or quirks (Adult Children of Alcoholics; Your Sun Sign Picks New Hats for You; Were Your Parents Emotionally Abusive?; Sourdough Recipes for Burnt Out Baby Boomers; New Careers for Cannibals) they’re just repackaging what charlatans have been passing off as divination forever. You figure out which slice of the chart you fit into and then look up the banal idiosyncrasies they pair you with and you gasp at how insightful it all is. I know that sounds skeptical, but that’s just how we Aries roll.
Still, you’d best believe I will keep a watchful eye out for whatever shenanigans Miss Minogue might try to pull on me. She’s tiny, but I hear she’s wiry.
Guys I really hope are not my enemy
Some men just know how to fill out a thermal shirt
And some guys know how to fill out a pair of handcuffs.
That is exactly the red paint I’ve been looking for for years.
Meaty, big, and bouncy.
These boots are made for walkin’/ and that’s just what they’ll do
When I first started ogling a very cute, muscular Eastern European on as site specializing in allowing customers to watch shenanigans of the nasty variety, I never expected to become friends with him. But that’s just what happened with our dear chum Mikey from Chaturbate. And I certainly never, ever expected to become part of a gang of buds with other fans of his, but I did. Details about this gang life are here: https://mrpeenee.wordpress.com/2019/09/16/mod-squad/
So here we are, well into the 21st Century, the future. I have no flying car or cabana on the moon or sexbot, but I do have good friends I have never physically met with whom I communicate by mysterious internet waves called texts. And part of our camaraderie is our regular gathering every Sunday night to watch movies together and comment on them by text. It is our Chaturbate Movie Night Club. First we observe Mikey choking his very own chicken while we discuss the weather, IT support tips, recipes, celebrity gossip, medical issues. The yoozh. The very same fat my mother’s bridge club chewed 40 years ago. But with an order of porn on the side. Once Mikey has spewed, we move onto the film of the evening and our very insightful discussion of it.
Criteria for selecting that week’s offering is loose to the point of being non-existent. Someone will suggest a title, the rest of us watch the trailer or read up about it on Wikipedia, and then we decide whether or not to screen it. It sounds innocuous, but all this occurs as comments in Mikey’s CB room while Mikey is doing the Dance of No Veils. All of this while his other fans get to watch us hash out the merits of some cinematic masterpiece. God knows what they think about this odd sideline. Most of our debates center on a) how cute the lead is and b) will he flash sufficient skin.
Our selections lean towards sci-fi and action, movies to which 12 year old boys would flock. I really like this whole experience; the boys have exposed me to a lot of films I wouldn’t have considered and which I wound up liking. Man from Uncle, Train from Busan (an excellent Korean zombie train movie,) Hotel Artemis, Atomic Blonde; all great stuff. Of course, they aren’t all hits. Keanu Reeves’ bomb Replicas was so bad I bailed out not even a third of the way into the mess. And Mikey insisted on a Christmas piece of dog doodoo called A Knight Before Christmas. It was a Hallmark torture device so saccharine I blame it for all my dental woes this last year.
Just last Sunday, our resident medical expert, Bobby, requested The Mummy as celebration for his birthday. Although I’ve seen it lots, I hadn’t seen it start to finish in quite a while and I had forgotten how really well made it is, with terrific pacing. So thanks to the gang for that. Are the circumstances of our little club a tiny bit odd perhaps? Yes, but it adds a lot to my quiet little life and I appreciate it. Come join us some Sunday evening, about 10:00 PST, everybody is welcome.
Mikey is very much on my mind these days because the poor little thing has a torn rotator cuff (ouchie wow wow) and is going in for surgery on Monday. Even though he is a big, tough guy, he is worrying about the surgery and mainly the recovery, because he is also a little girl. A little girl in pink ruffled Pussy Pants. We have done our best to reassure him that this will all be all right and that the respite from the pain in his shoulder will be worth iy. He understands that, but he’s still sort of fretting. So, any suggestions for our movie on Sunday, the night before he goes under the knife, would be appreciated. Remember, gratuitous boy butt is always welcome.
This week’s naughty pictures will focus on the big, hairy, well-seasoned kind of beef Mikey prefers
Mr. Kamynin, again.
And yet again
I don’t know, some hairy old man. Look I had to hunt through so many sites of “Silver Daddies” “Hot, Hairy Hunk” and “Bear This, Bear That, Bear Blablabla” that I think I have pubic hair permanently lodged in the back of my throat. The things I do for my friends.
I think the long nightmare of my Bone Hole TM saga may be drawing to a close. If you were lucky enough to miss my whining about this, my Bone Hole TM is an actual hole in my jaw bone that led to an absolutely baroque series of dental procedures up to and including pulling the stupid tooth above it. Since the tooth next to it had been removed years ago for a crown, I wound up with a sizable gap in that neighborhood. Last week, I got a “removable partial” to deal with that and, please baby jeebus, finish up with the whole sorry mess.
I hadn’t realized when discussing this with my dentist that the “partial” in “removable partial” is short for “partial denture.” A denture. Yes, one more entry in our exciting If You Don’t Die, You Get Old sitcom. I also hadn’t realized how massive this bitch would turn out. I lost another tooth 40 years ago on the other side of my mouth. You couldn’t see it, it was the tiny tooth behind the canine so I just ignored it all these years, but my current dentist decided he would include a replacement for it as an anchor for the new partial. That means the structure reaches across my mouth behind my lower incisors and is enormous. Even I, who am fairly casual about sticking big things in my maw, am intimidated by it. When I manage to wrestle it in, it feels a lot like I had taken a whim to swallow a car’s dashboard but gotten stuck on the turn signal.
Of course, it helps a lot in chewing, but comfort is not a big part of its profile. I decided early on I would just put up with it when I’m eating, but I keep forgetting to put it in, so it spends most of the time lurking in the cabinet, silently rebuking me. Since I get enough of that from Saki, I’m considering a life of pudding and cottage cheese.
Changing gears, I’d like to address the plague of the all white room. I spend a fair chunk of time idly scrolling through Tumblr, mostly harvesting pictures of attractive, if scantily clothed young men for these posts. Perhaps you’ve noticed.
Who doesn’t love a good tanline?
Lately though, my Tumblr feed has been choked with image after image of these insipid white-on-white-on-white rooms, a design decision that I loathe. It’s nothing particularly new, this is the at least the fourth big go-round it’s had since the 1980s, but just because something won’t die doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.
As far as I can tell, its appeal lies with it being easy to do on the cheap (anyone with access to a bucket of white paint has most of the look nailed down) and that it comforts namby pambies who are afraid of picking colors. I love color in decorating, strong, bright, dramatic hues especially. Here’s a secret: if you don’t like a color, you can change it. I know painting is a hassle, but do you really think trying to live with white floors isn’t?
These rooms are so insipid, so bloodless. I believe their current popularity rises in part from the de-cluttering gospel that writer Marie Kondo has passed on to her cult. Her motto is “Discard anything that doesn’t spark joy” which is fine with me, People cling to too much crap. Got it, and agree with it, but the problem is adhering to passionately to it brings you to these anemic spaces.
This sparks joy for someone? It would be like living in a tidy refrigerator. This type of decorating is committed to an absence of knick knacks, art, books, everything that adds warmth and color and personality to a room. Who would want to live without them?
Speaking of dealing with the gorgeous clutter that a full book case brings:
I’m not sure if they were trying to be ironic, but that image upsets me so much, so fills me with a disturbing rage, I can understand what opponents of pornography must feel when faced with something as beautiful as this
A personal problem, I think.
I loved my garden, but I’m tepid towards house plants. Even if I wasn’t I would still feel strongly against dragging in large, semi-tropical plants like birds of paradise or bananas, such as here to an environment where they will jsut suffer a lingering death. Indoor plants need to be able to tolerate the temperatures we like inside, the arid dryness of our homes and the insufficient light that comes from not being outside, and bananas are not going to do that. Knock it off.
But it’s not all complaints about teeth and bad design decisions around here. California has re-opened from our last round of lockdown, which I honestly expected to last until April, so yay. Because of that, I was able to spend part of this afternoon out on Peet’s cafe’s outside parklette knocking back a latte and a muffin. In these sad times, that’s what constitutes decadence. Also, I have a haircut appointment scheduled whihc is plenty enough to get me in a good mood.
Helping with good moods, our latest selection of mens
My motto. You got a problem with that?
The aptly named Dick Huge.
You know how I love a ginger.
Mike Branson, discovered back in the vaults, from a time when dinosaurs roamed the porn aisle.
Oh, he’s an angel.
I don’t understand how people get their butt do that. And how do you live with it once you do? How do you sit in a chair, or maneuver down the grocery aisle, or pull your fucking pants up? For that matter, how do people behind you in line at Starbucks resist just reaching over and squeezing it to see if it’s real? Anyway, we salute you, Butt Man.