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.

We Give Thanks, Now Leave Us Alone

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My dearest friends on the local scene are a very sweet couple I think of as “The Children” because they are younger enough than me that our relationship frequently has overtones of Nana and her beloved offspring.  So The Children very kindly invited me over for Thanksgiving, but I declined.

Even as I did, I wondered “why am I being such a curmudgeon?”  It would have been a lovely diner and they are very amusing company.  I think it’s something along the lines of “I don’t have to have a good time if I don’t want to.”  The almost universal pressure to celebrate these random holidays sometimes just gets too irritating for me to ignore.  The grating demands from society as presented by the media and that goddam Nelson Rockwell painting finally just pushed me over the edge.  So I said no.   The Children were the very picture of graciousness and we’re having lunch downtown tomorrow

Not at all like The Children, but we all know those annoying hostesses who flutter around demanding to know your plans for the holiday weeks in advance.  Should you not have any, they will triumphantly shrill that they’re having a big dinner and you HAVE to come, despite never having had so much as coffee with this crazed bitch.  She will declare that she always makes a big Thanksgiving “for all the orphans who don’t have any pace to go.”  She will glow modestly about her saintly generosity, oblivious to the fact this sounds as appealing as settling in for the night in a homeless shelter.

She will later keep you updated on the number of guests.  “Got 78 coming, we’ll be eating in shifts in the garage.”  Do not fall for this, no matter how guilty she tries to make you feel about skipping the festivities.  She just wants to up the total because the greater the burden, the more pious the old biddy feels.  She WANTS it to be chaos, to be more than a mortal can provide, that proves how saintly she is.

Saki and I will be dining in tonight, canned cat food for him and home made chicken salad for me.  As I told Diane, it can be hard to tell them apart, but I don’t care.  I will triumph over America’s demand that I celebrate whatever the fuck Thanksgiving is for.  Carbohydrates apparently.

Alternatives to your traditional turkey/dressing/cranberry spread

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How about a ham?

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Rump roast sounds good

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Beef is always appealing.

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Something well aged, like port.  Or cheese.

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Or go ethnic with some Cubano sausage.

Bon appetit.

Tooth Drama

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Cause everybody likes to read about somebody else’s tooth misery, amirite?

Last February, I had a root canal done.  Not the high point of anyone’s afternoon probably, but not a really big deal either.  The whole sorry mess was caused by a largish hole that had appeared in my jaw around the roots of one of my molars. At the end of the procedure, the dentist casually mentioned that he had packed antibiotics in the hole and I was to return in a couple of months to see if they had done their stuff and healed up the hole.

I went in, he looked at the new x-ray and announced in mournful tones that the antibiotics had not done much and that we would have to try again.   He removed the temporary filling by drilling it out, put in some more antibiotics and told me to trot my bad self back there in two months. And so I innocently started down yet another one of those rabbit holes that is such a recurring motif in the magic and mystery that is mrpeenee.

Every two months for the last year, I’ve reported in like a good little patient and we go through the entire routine again.  Each time, I feel like I’m letting down the team.  My jaw is not cooperating.  Let me hasten to add, the hole is covered by my gum and I cannot feel it, no matter how much I poke at it with my tongue.  Never has hurt, just hanging around like a hole is wont to.  And so we go along our merry way, filling and refilling the same fucking tooth every two months.  Every.  Two.  Months.

I am fortunate he’s so good at this, because each time, the drilling part is uncomfortable, right on the edge of hurting.  I sit there, clenched, thinking “This could blast through into real agony any second.”  I mentioned that to the good doctor once and he said “Yeah, you seem ok.”  Oh, well then, party down!

Now we are discussing the obvious possibility that the hole will not heal and I will need oral surgery to repair it.  Is there any more rousing term in the language than “oral surgery?”  He described the two options therein and got to the part where he would peel my gum back and I sort of blanked out.  I don’t even remember anything about the second option.

I remind myself that I watched R Man go through open heart surgery and chemotherapy (twice) and I should just buck up.  And then a tiny little traitorous voice in the back of my head whispers. “Peel back your gums” and I am ever so less sanguine.

I’m due back in February for our regular danse macabre.  It’s our anniversary, but I don’t know what to get him.  Something in ivory I suppose.

Toothsome boys:

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I wanted some pictures of naked, muscley dentists, but I couldn’t find any.

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Again with the photoshopping.  Why would you look at a shot of such a flawless man and think you needed to gild his lily?

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I’ve just given up on trying to find pictures that have escaped PhotoShop.

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Doesn’t this guy look like Christopher Eccleston, the ninth Dr. Who?  Plus his dick looks just like what I always assumed Eccleston’s would look like.

Rain, Art, and a Witch or Two

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Yuck.

Today was the first rains of the rainy season, winter is well and truly on us.  I slogged over to my cafe and was busy staring blankly into space when my reverie was interrupted by the Lady next to me complaining to her friend about Californians who complain about the weather.  I understand a double complaint is sort of like a double negative, but that’s what was going on; I’m just reporting the indignation.

I considered her points (she had several of them.  I can’t remember what they were, but there were lots of them) as she nattered on, and, being a fair minded fellow, I decided “Fuck you bitch.”  I know we live in a dessert and should be grateful for every drop that falls and the weather here is constantly beautiful, but if I want to complain, I will.  I just won’t do it here in this post.  For once.

Instead, let us turn our attention to a very amusing and charming artist I stumbled upon.  He is, of course, Japanese.  His name is Kensuke Koike.  This is one of my favorite of his many little video compositions,  bowling

Sorry, I can’t figure out how to paste in a link to Instagram that includes some kind of thumbnail.  I find Instagram uncooperative in general.  But I like Koike’s work, it’s visually witty.  This is his website

Lastly, for no reason I can think of, I am reminded of a recurring drama I would have with visitors during my time in New Orleans.  Guests would blow into town and often demand to go see the tomb of a famous voodoo priestess/witch named Marie Laveau.  Laveau was a historical person and like most of those in New Orleans, her story is murky, but her status as a souvenir icon is absolutely sterling.  Part of the murky story is that the tomb referred to as hers and which everyone visits is generally discounted by the cemetery historians (because New Orleans has them) as housing the remains of somebody else entirely.  Not that that ever stops tourists from dropping by there.  They apparently leave chicken bones as some kind of offering.  Since Mme. Laveau is not in residence, one wonders what kind of luck they have with that.  Also, is leaving the trash from your lunch at Popeye’s ever a good offering for anything?

So, people would want to see the tomb and I would resolutely refuse.  My logic was twofold: either it was a fake, in which case why would they want to traipse all the way over to the cemeteries to see a fraud?  Or else it wasn’t fake, in which case what the fuck are you doing fucking around with a real witch’s grave?  Moron.

Genuine naked guys,

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Grab a cold one.

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You know how fond I am of short muscley mens.

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Smack that and see if it jiggles.  Report back.

The Big Three Ohhhhh

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Dear little Mikey.   Feel free to insert some tired “birthday candle” joke here.

Today is our dear friend Mikey’s birthday, his 30th to be mathematically exact.  The Chaturbate gang celebrated last night (which was the morning of his birthday; time zones are so confusing) by zapping his prostate with a shower of electronic tips in the old  tip jar.  We laughed and laughed as Mikey bounced around and squealed.  Then he did a handstand to do 31 pushups with a semi-hardon.  He is just that impressive.

I actually remember my own 30th, lost in the mists of time that it is.  I took some acid with my friend and bad influence Robert and we sat around my apartment yukking it up while the acid worked its magic.  Robert decided we needed to go out to the bars.  I never understood why my friends always wanted to go out whilst tripping.  There we were, safe, warm, and loaded, but no, we need to walk over to a loud dark bar and stand around with a bunch of strangers.  Anyway, that’s when it all went to hell.

We got out of my place, walked to the end of the block, 2 doors down, crossed the street and suddenly I had no depth perception and my whole field of vision distorted into some shattered, crazy abstract.  I absolutely couldn’t go any farther, but I couldn’t cross the street because I couldn’t see it.  Would my dear friend Robert help me back to my cozy little retreat?  FUCK NO.  Cause that’s just what druggy friends will do you for.

Somehow I reeled back home collapsed on my bed, possibly crying, and then immediately flipped over into having a fabulous time, tripping and seeing infinity and being convinced I had performed in a porn film.  Why?  LSD, that’s why.

Anyhoo, I certainly hope Mikey had a better time than that, or maybe as good a time as that, without the brief psychotic episode.

Mikey burfday presenz

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Cause Mikey likes veins, but then, who doesn’t?

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I know it’s not real, but it’s a birthday, OK?

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Mikey is also very fond of hairy beasts

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEEETIE