Sunshine and Lollipops


Gracious chiclets, what a lovely, lovely day it is here.  Just yesterday was the tail end of winter, sunny, but cold and damp still and then today, bam, we’re suddenly in a Beach Blanket movie.  Everybody broke out their short sleeves and sandals and immediately went from complaining about how freezing it is to how sweltering it is.  San Franciscans only have about a 4 degree window of ambient temperature we’re willing to accept.


This guy.

The air is weightless and the sun is warm and feels like it’s puddling all around you in big golden pools.  It’s especially noticeable in my living room with enormous windows that face west and south.  You can walk through the space and it might as well be at the beach in Rio.  I’m thinking about opening a spa in there and charging people to come sit on my couch.


Saki the cat is, of course, totally in his element, digging the heat.  He believes he is Master of Market Street and who am I to contradict him?  I merely exist to feed him and clean out his poop box.

Warm bodies:



Sleepy Time


I suspect when I tell people I sleep all day they translate that as something like I sleep at night like normal people and then take naps during the day.  Wrong.  I go to sleep about 7:00 AM, dawn for those of you who might miss the whole “rosy fingered” thing.  I then saw away until 5:00 or 6:00 that evening, broken only by occasional old man piss trips and whenever Saki can wake me up enough to feed him.

It’s a schedule made famous by rock and roll legends and vampires and it works fine for me.  My system apparently is owl.  No wonder I had such a hard time getting up for school or work; I was leaving my bed just when I should have been settling down into it.  Of course there were drawbacks, there always are.  Trying to get to appointments, doctor, hair, chats with friends, whatever, was problematic and I never got the sympathy I deserved when I would whine about setting my alarm for 2:00 in the afternoon.

And then three days ago, suddenly I couldn’t sleep.  At all.  Does everyone have trouble sleeping?  Yes, yes we do, except cats.  I would turn in and lie there expecting to doze off at any minute, but the minute would tick by and suddenly it was early afternoon and I was still awake.  The second day I surrendered and wound up down at Peet’s Cafe knocking back a latte with some tasty muffins.

I know, I know, coffee when you can’t sleep is just exacerbating the problem, but my experience is if I can’t fall asleep in the first half hour, it’s not going to happen.  So I embraced insomnia and turned to my usual answer to everything, coffee and a pastry at Peet’s.  If it can’t help, it also can’t hurt.

I’ve finally fallen asleep about 3:00 or 4:00.  Is this my new schedule?  If anything it seems even more inconvenient than my old one.  I’m hoping this passes and I can go back to watching crappy You Tube videos at hours when all the god fearing are snoring away.  Still in the video queue are hundreds of hours of Russian lunkheads trying to unload a sports car off the back of a truck with a couple of 2 x 4s.  Hilarious.

Guys in bed:




Musical mrpeenee


I had dinner the other night at Fable, one of my all time favorite restaurants, and was assailed by their music selection.  Since I was dining alone, I had no one with whom to share my insight that the only thing more annoying than old timey rap is French old timey rap.

What is with French people and popular music?  They’ve had 60 years of rock and roll, just like the rest of us, and they still can’t get it.  I have a theory that their love of rules means they’re still looking for a pop music owners’ manual.  Tragically, my theory will never be examined because I find their music too irritating to listen to long enough to find out.

But wait, there’s more.  Yesterday I had my teeth cleaned (and found out I have to have a root canal next week) with a new dental tech.  My former one was efficient and no nonsense and accepted my blithe answer that I pretty much never floss with a curt “At least you don’t lie about it.”  Her replacement is overwhelmingly cheerful and never shuts up.

The music in the office has changed from some very nice classical to something that vaguely resembles mellow jazz, but has no breaks between what might be songs.  I assume it’s some algorithm that creates noise influenced by the dreaded Kenny G.  Bad enough, but the dental technician only ever stopped yammering in order to hum along with it.  Yes, she was singing along to musical gibberish.


Mens to help me calm down:




Cheery.  That’s what I need after a punishing dental session.

In Which We Can See Clearly


I got new glasses, and not because of some stupid witness protection program.  Forget I said that.  Anyway, I got new glasses.  Some while ago, my optometrist suggested I get a pair for using the computer and it turned out to be a great idea.  Monitor screens tend to be at a distance neither reading glasses nor distance glasses can correct for.  Try computer glasses today!

Everything with them would have been just ducky except I stupidly got them in the same frames as my distance glasses and I could never tell them apart until I was walking outside and wondered why everything was out of focus.  Again.  Dammit.

My new frames’ shape is almost identical to the old ones, but they’re just different enough to screw up my depth perception so that stepping off a curb is an adventure.  I expect to get used to that soon.  And in the meantime as a trade-off, I get the wonder of brand new lenses,  with everything so clear and crisp.  Earlier I was waiting on the sidewalk for some friends just staring up at the leaves’ edges, thrilled.  Passersby probably thought I was loaded, but that has happened plenty of time before.

A mrpeenee Fashion Show, sort of before and after:



And they’re already crooked.  No matter how much the store adjusts them, some gravitational field that science will never master immediately wonks them out of line.  I’m convinced if my glasses are ever straight, they would just make my face crooked.  Or more crooked.

Also, guys with glasses who probably never have trouble getting passes:




So why have I suddenly become so coy about pictures of guys flashing their bits?  It’s all the fault of Tumblr’s new policy against so called  porn.  Tumblr was where I got all my feelthy pictures and what a wonderland of smut it was, page after page of incredibly gorgeous men scrolling by.  Now it’s nothing but underwear models demurely hiding their goods.  Unless I decide to start illustrating my posts with neo-nazis, I will need a new source.  If any of you have any suggestions, they would be welcome.

You Don’t Need a Weather Man


It’s been raining in San Francisco for several days, the kind of gentle, melancholy rain that reminds you of French black and white films of the 50’s.  Nothing really remarkable about this spate, winter weather here gets around to this kind of thing every year, more or less.  The thing about this time was the hand wringing and dire predictions from meteorologists a few days before the storm got going.

They were all wound up, with cries of flash floods and whatnot, which, looking out my window at the perfectly well behaved storm, seems really over done.  In retrospect, these almost-hysterics came out right as Chicago and other unfortunate locales were dealing with the Polar Vortex.  The Vortex resulted in several people dying, the New York Times seriously over-working the word “brutal,” and, apparently, tipping several local weatherperson into hissy fits of forecasting envy.

I understand it must not be easy being a Bay Area weatherperson; the weather here never gets much more severe than somebody leaving the air conditioner on too long. Seven or eight months of the year there is no rain and the temperature never varies beyond about a 50 – 70 degree window.  So meteorologists have the same prediction day in and day out “Sunny and mild with a chance of fog.”  Not terribly dramatic.  You could file a months worth of reports in one day and spend the rest of the time playing video games, but somehow that seems to weigh on the poor dears’ souls.

There they are, glumly going through the motions and watching some weather girl in Minneapolis blithely tossing around terms like “hypothermia” and all they have is low level fog. Maybe they sort of over reacted to yet another dully predictable prediction.  Who can blame them?

Now they have been reduced to dithering about the possibility of snow.  Snow!  In S.F.!  The last time it snowed here was 1976, so OK, striking, but these poor queens are about to wet their pants over it.  Just calm down, you want to tell them, you are embarrassing  yourself.  Again, one doesn’t know whether to feel pity or disgust.  Sad really.

And now, humpy men in the rain.  Or at least water:





Are you cold sweetie?  Let me rub those nipples for you.

Fashion Trends


My new raincoat was delivered yesterday and in a stroke of serendipitous timing, it rained all day today so I could take it out for a test drive.


It was an unqualified success.  Cozy warm, it kept me completely dry with none of those annoying seam leaks, and best of all, the hood fits.  Since I have long (some would say swanlike, but not me of course) neck, hoods are always problematic.  I bought rain gear last summer to be prepared when the rains finally came only to discover when they did that the coat’s hood was way too shallow leaving my face and glasses out in the rain.

I understand a dark (I thought it was black, but the picture makes me assume that it’s really navy.  That is mrpeenee’s fashion sense in one sentence) unremarkable parka would not rate as fashion for most people, but since all the rest of my clothing purchases in the last decade have been identical replacements for whatever tee shirt wears out, this was a pretty extraordinary event.

Because I bought the first one so long ago, I don’t remember what made me pick it originally.  Probably it was the first thing listed on the Land’s End web site that day.  As I mentioned, it fit oddly, with sleeves long enough, but the tail too short to cover my butt and the stupid hood perched on the back of my head.  Both coats though came loaded down with all sorts of velcro and zippers and odd pockets that I have no idea what to do with.  It seems sort over engineered for San Francisco’s undemanding weather.  Part of the description for the new one promised something about the pockets that would keep the snow out.  What?  Perhaps my readers more familiar with snow can explain why that’s a thing.  Does snow sneak into your pockets?  I wouldn’t put it past it; I’m very suspicous of snow.

In other news:  naked guys far away from cold gray weather


That’s called a “tan.”  Perhaps you have forgotten about them.


keeping warm is important during these trying times.


Sunny, warm, tropicale.  Even in California it calls to me.


Seen on the Street


One of the best features about my new (new-ish) apartment is the gym right next door.  Not that I use it for working out.  Eeks, no.  But it does pretty much guarantee a steady stream of really cute, well built guys streaming past my front door.  I would consider joining it just to go and ogle the boys changing, but all of them look like they come in their gym clothes already.  While that improves the streetscape, it does cut down on the ogling chances.

I’d prefer something like this:





Also, while we’re down here on the street, I’ve recently seen a return of a graffiti (I believe there is a different noun for a single piece of graffiti, but I’m too lazy to look it up. You can if you’d like to.) I’m very fond of; the street koi.


These have been around for years, sort of on and off.  I like them because they’re unusual, being on the street, and the play with a sense of perspective, as if you’re looking down into a koi pond.   And now, apparently, the artist has been commissioned to cover up temporary construction walls, so good for him.


As I said, the koi come and go.  Imagine my surprise when I was in New Orleans once and stumbled upon a bunch of them there.  My friend Stephen said he was acquainted with the artist, but not fond of him.  He said the local theory of the random appearance of the art was that the artist would inevitably wind up with enough restraining orders against him that he would leave town until they built up in his new environs at which time he would strike out for new horizons.  I don’t know, I’m just going on Stephen’s possibly biased deductions.

I’m a fan of graffiti.  I think it can be charming and amusing and even beautiful.   Well, not when people jus splatter their tag up and call it day.  That has all the appeal of a car alarm going off.  But when it’s funny and makes you think, isn’t that art?


In Which We Go Back A Bit


For those of you who missed them the first time around, or those who still miss them, here is the 1980s wrapped up in one video:

Let’s see, do we have all the parts?

  • Bleach blonde, pouty lipped pretty boy singer?  Check,
  • Hyper stylized clothes that make you look like you got dressed in a hurry, in the dark?  Check.
  • Synth laden music ripping off better, more original music (in this case, Spin Me Round by Dead or Alive)?  Check.
  • Ronald Reagan’s poisonous spirit looming around?  Check.
  • The terrifying mystery of AIDS just off camera, but very present?  Check.

Turns out the last is more important to this bit than was originally intended since the singer, Paul Lekakis, admitted in an interview with POZ magazine that he had lied about his HIV status to his customers while turning tricks in Los Angeles in the 90s.  The interview and, maybe, Lekakis makes this sound unpardonable and shocking.  Sweetie, I was there and I remember that by the late 90s when Lekakis was working West Hollywood what AIDS was was unquestionable and how it spread was well established. What he did was bad, but was it that shocking?  If you ask a rentboy about his HIV status and then take his word for it, you are simply too naive to be hiring one.


In other 80s news, Buttocks of the Past:


Mike Timber


Buck Hayes


Mike Betts

Merry Xmas, with Extra Bits


My christmas present showed up today.  Yay!  Totally not sarcastic for once!  Genuine yay!

When I was in Austin earlier this month, the charming Diane von Austinburg led me to a small gallery we both like called Yard Dog.  Totally cool.  If you’re in Austin, you should drop in there on South Congress.  I was very struck by, and then bought,  a constructed piece called Who Breaks a Butterfly on a Wheel?  Photo below:


As we stood there arranging for it be shipped halfway across the country, Diane remarked that it was never going to make it all the way out here in one piece.  Or words to that effect.  Diane is never snarkey and I can never imitate her measured tones.

Proof of Diane’s prescience:

art stuff.jpg

I think the frame holding the components might have started out life as a really big wall clock (although it seems too shallow for that) or possibly a whatnot shelf.  It’s mahogany and the little feet allowed us to stand it up in the gallery since I was thinking of displaying it that way rather than hanging it.   All those little bits ‘n bobs there on the left are the pieces I found in the bottom of the shipping box.  I only found the legs that had busted off by sifting through the peanuts. All of these pieces seem like what you could have found in the back of any good grandfather’s garage when I was a kid.  Even the eight ball.  Now it’s art.

God knows, the very nice guy who owns Yard Dog did the best he could in packing it.  There was enough styrofoam peanuts to account for a small slip in global warming.  The padding also included some scraps of bubble wrap taped together in a way that suspiciously implied they may have at one point provided the basis for a wacky Halloween costume.

Still, in the end, it was not enough.  Looking it over closely now, I am pretty sure no human effort would have sufficed.  I’m not convinced this baby could have made it from the gallery to the car without at least one piece falling off.

The artist’s attitude towards construction seems to have leaned towards the lassiez faire, with a fair amount of glue and possibly spit.  He also seems to have depended on gravity with somethings apparently just resting on top of others.  “It’s art,” it implies “How much are you really going to be moving this around?”  Good point.

And to be honest, this brings up the interesting idea of how closely do I have to hew to the artist’s original when reassembling all this?  In the picture of the piece before its shipping trauma, you can see a big semi-petrified handball on the top right corner.  I thought at the time that it threw the proportion off and didn’t really work.  And now it’s fallen off!  Do I have to put dutifully back in place?  If you think the answer is yes, you just don’t know me well enough.  My theory is, if I have to put it back, I get to put it where I please.


Art.  Plein air art, in fact


My theory is, if I have to put it back, I get to put it where I please.