In Which We Are Befogged


Today seems like the quintessential San Francisco day. The fog blew in from the Pacific earlier and now wraps us up in a cool, gray embrace. It’s very much like living inside a great big pearl. If you look up at the sky, it has depths you can only sort of see. It’s very quiet and restful.

Of course, I love our gorgeous, sunny weather, but saying that is like saying you have a crush on a big muscly blonde surfer dude. To wit:

Whereas being enamored of fogginess is more like being stuck on a guy who’s moody and demands more from you, but in turn will probably not run off with all your Valium. Like this:

Photophobia, which is not a fear of snapshots, but rather a sensitivity to bright lights runs in my family, both my mother and my brother Ed have it and hated the bright sunlight we lived with on the Gulf Coast. My mother said the light was actually painful and dealt with it with a series of giant sunglasses. Coincidentally, R Man also suffered from it, so when we moved out here into the Fog Belt from sunny New Orleans, he was delighted to be in an environment that was so sympathetic to his squinty genes.

Guys easy on the eyes

It may be foggy, but it’s summer

Get your nasty butthole off that counter. That’s where I cut up strawberries.

Over at Chaturbate, we call this pose “The Landing Pad.”

Also, today is Diane von Austinburg’s birthday. Most happy to you, sweetie.

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

7 responses »

  1. Happy mumblety-something Diane!

    Mr. P., you have put together an amazing collection of prime beef, except for that butthole on the counter. I don’t know what is worse: The butthole on the counter; the butthole having tatoos that match great-grandma’s chintz drapes; or those oversized pendant lights.


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