Author Archives: mrpeenee

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.

Consumer Electronic peenee

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I was making my way up Market Street, headed, as usual, to Walgreens to fight with the pharmacists, as usual, for my meds.  Those girls have developed the instincts of a cobra from years of turning back junkie forays into prescription drugs.  I kept thinking where did all these people come from and why are they IN MY WAY?  I finally realized it was Saturday, something that doesn’t really matter to those of us in the retirement field.  And a lovely, sunny Saturday to boot.  No wonder everyone had turned out, but why do they have to turn out in my path?  Who knows?  Get out of my way.

After defeating Walgreens (natch,) I had to make a grocery store run.  Yes, I am almost cooking again.  “Almost” because I was breaking in a brand new crock pot.  I have never owned one before.  I always figured if you have a stove and a pot, what’s the point?  But now that I have been marooned in an apartment with an electric stove, which I hate so much, I refuse to acknowledge it as an actual cooking device, I have discovered their (possibly) usefulness.  As I said, this is the first thing I’ve cooked in it, so we’ll see.

Also, I now realize the pot I bought is designed for one of those giant suburban families that need 6 quarts of lentils.  This is a monster that would do Alice of the Brady Bunch proud.

And I bought an air purifier in hopes that it might deal with the ambient cat hair.  There are great drifts of it everywhere here.  I think my old place was so big, you didn’t especially notice there was enough loose fur around that you could have knitted a brand new cat.   In my new apartment, it’s just me, the cat and all his discarded hair.  How he can lose so much and not be bald is beyond me.

So, the little purifier works great.  I have it in my bedroom and as soon as I step out of the door there, I can tell a difference.  I immediately start wiping my nose and choking.  I knew Saki has been trying to kill me for years, I just never suspected he was doing it by means of air control suffocation.

The purifier has a little colored light on it to indicate the quality of the air, blue is good, purple not so hot, and red is bad.  It’s like a mood ring.  It pretty much stays a lovely, cool blue, but whenever I walk directly past it, it turns red.  Bitch.  I have been dissed by better appliances than you.  I don’t care.  Suck up the cat hair and get to work slacker.

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Look! It’s our old friend Gianfranco looking all photoshopped and pretty.

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I do love a good blonde bitch bottom.

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Ah, the mystery, the allure of a big fat, half exposed wiener.

The New and Improved Healthier mrpeenee

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I was at Walgreen’s in the middle of Castro and sort of out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of this gorgeous classic California Surfer Boy.  Sunkissed gold skin and shaggy blonde hair, studying the Gatorade cooler with no shirt on.  Gasp.  As I turned for a better look, I realized the security rent a cop was hovering awfully nearby and closer inspection revealed a homeless guy with no shirt in board shorts.  I had obviously forgotten there are no beach boys indigenous to San Francisco.

Still, flawless tan, blonde hair.  A good wash and rinse and hide all your valuables and he’s probably do OK.  Reminds me of an old Romeo Void song (and whatever happened to them?  Probably homeless in a Walgreens.) that I always thought was called “I might like you better if we slept together” and was somewhat a cri de coeur of mine and which included considering fucking some transient with the line “He’d be warm in your coat….”

In order to keep the Walgreen’s security force from eyeing me in the same manner, I am attempting a more healthful, or at least less ridiculous, life. I have been all too casual about staying in bed 24 hours a day and only eating pills. It was a salute to Valley of the Dolls, and look how that turned out. So now, I’m back to eating salads every day and forcing myself out into the wide, wide world.

The trouble with all that is when you feel weak and vaguely crummy, the knowledge that getting out of bed and moving around will help is clearly understood, but that doesn’t really help get me through the “get out of bed” part of the equation.

What I really need are two big mens to lift me gently out of the supine and dress me and push me out the door.  Again, gently.

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These guys seem cooperative.  That’s important.

Leafy Green Peenee

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Looking back on the days leading up to my health bump in the road, it’s easy to see where I went wrong.  Hell, I saw I was going wrong even as I was doing it; I just didn’t stop.   Little  things like staying in bed 24 hours a day for days in a row, emerging only to pee and eat whatever cookies I could find in the pantry.  Yes, I knew I was not actually a vampire, but I seemed to think living like one might be a viable concept.  It wasn’t.

As I crept back into the world of the Not Sick as a Sick Dog, I googled what to eat for a life with a touchy gallbladder.  Of course, the first item is leafy green vegetables.  No matter what problem you Google ( gall bladder, early menopause, how to file your taxes, how to escape the country after you file your own taxes) leafy greens always show up as a solution.  Obviously the industrial military spinach complex has penetrated the search engine universe.

But I asked, they answered and so I have been following their advice with salads at every meal and just tonight, kale.  I was so impressed with myself, I texted Diane to brag about it.  She replied asking how I prepared it.  Isn’t that adorable?  Thinking that I might actually be cooking once again.  I replied, crushing her sad little dreams, that it was the side with my Chicken Parmigiana at the Firewood Cafe, an old favorite.

In the four months I’ve been in this apartment I have turned on the stove twice, both ties to boil water.  The second time, having learned from the disastrous first time, only after I washed all the cat hair off.  The stove has one of those totally smooth porcelain tops which is easy to clean, but which collects dust and cat hair.  If you don’t wash all the debris off before firing that mother up, the stench of burning cat fur will fill the place and stay with you.  At low times, I think I can still smell it.

Anyway, my diet is better, I’m leaving the house for a couple of walks every day and I feel much better.  Food and exercise, who knew?

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Because this could await for you in the outside environs.  Who knows?

 

Greetings from the Emergency Room!

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Yes, I’m in the Emergency Room writing this on my phone because the ER Nazis won’t let me go.

If you’re looking for a mob of really cute guys to come hover over you while pretending to be concerned, you can hire a whole bunch of rentboys or, alternatively, call 911 and announce you think you’re having a heart attack.  Turns out I didn’t have one, but gracious, those EMT guys were gorgeous.

So I didn’t have a heart attack, but I had something about midnight (it’s now 5:00 am) and now they want to find out what is going on with this pain in my chest.  Or else I’m just stuck here helping them pay the rent.

Also, this recently in, the puking and fever and chills festival Tuesday night is apparently my gallbladder.  Before I saw my doctor on Thursday and he diagnosed this, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you if I had one for sure.  Now I know that it’s in full revolt against my idiotic diet consisting primarily of cookies.

What the chest pains and shaky chills were tonight, the medical community and I don’t know.

I just want to go home.

 

I Guess I’m Back

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There are probably many sentences you hope you will not utter over the bumpy course of your life, and yet you wind up spitting them out.  Here’s one:

I was puking so hard, my glasses flew off my face and into the toilet.

Yes, yes, those are the words that sprang to mind just last night.   I will, for once, spare my readers, if I still have any, the grisly details.   I’m sure we’ve all been there, fever, chills, vomitus (and lots of it!)  Anyway, I’m going to see my doctor and I pay him to listen to my grisly details.

What else has been happening around here while I was slacking off?  I missed the anniversary of this blog (11years in July.  No wonder I ignore it, like a bad debt) and also the cat’s birthday.  He probably celebrated by biting me.  Evil, I tell you, evil.  He probably gave me whatever is laying waste to my gastro intestinal track.  Now that I think about it, that seems more likely than the idea I came up with in between bouts of puking, that was that my phone had infected me with malware.  I am aware that is not possible, but last night on the floor of my bathroom, staring at my glasses bobbing in a sea of unmentionables, I was willing to consider anything that would provide me with a villain for my misery.

Also, I have completely ignore my dear friend Diane von Austinburg and she deserves better.  The is a public apology and a promise that I will write soon, real soon.  We both know that is a lie,  It’s OK.

And my niece Lotus is arriving tomorrow with her family expecting a whole and sound uncle to show them around this charming cowtown.   I don’t know.

Lastly, while praying for self-induced euthanasia, I noticed Saki had managed to get poop on top of his tail.  I have no idea how he managed it and even less how I managed to deal with it.

In closing some naked guys, some of which seem to be, uhm, enhanced by the genius of photoshop.

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If that is not Photoshop, he needs an airport named after him.

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“I’m gonna leave this here. Can you keep an eye on it for me?  Thanks.”

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Some day, this young man may regret this photo.  But I won’t/

Life in the Big City

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Such a beautiful day.  Warm and sunny and that California light that makes everything look polished, even the piles of debris the street kids leave behind them, like dogs marking their patch.

I went up on our fancy schmancy rooftop deck to take pictures of home.

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I realize it looks sort of like Arizona, but nope, it’s right here in the middle of the Castro

The skies are blue, it’s mid July, so of across I was wearing a fleecy hoodie, cause the temps were in the 60s and it was breezy.  As I have mentioned before I always pity these poor tourists who think coming to California in the summer will be balmy.  And sometimes, briefly, it is.  But norms are layers and layers of clothes to put on and remove as the temperatures sway in the breeze.

I met up with Super Agent Fred.  Now that I have sold my house and with it, Fred’s studio, we don’t hang out as much as we.  I got no TV and all of Fred’s work stuff is back downtown in his tiny studio apartment, so now we just coffee and gossip.

That day were chatting about crazies.  With a year round mild temperature (if chill) and a tolerant city government, we have long been home to the homeless.  I may appear heartless, but I am not; I understand if you are living on the sidewalk, it is probably not your idea.  I understand choices were made, some of them yours, some of them not, some of them goof, probably most of them not.  You are afterall calling a ratty backpack, a filthy blanket and the doorway of an out of business tattoo shop “home.” So, chances are, most choices made were not good.

You cannot go three blocks in San Francisco without seeing some homeless guy.  If you have managed that you are either walking with your eyes close (such a chancy idea here)  or possibly you are the crazy guy.  Does the guy tying and untying his show rapidly and speaking to it in chiding tones think he’s the crazy one?  Probably not, and besides, he’s got shoe problems.  Bigger things on his mind.

But on this particular day, the homeless had been unusually abundant.  And they were moving in small packs, four or five to a group, which is not normal.  By the next day, they broken up into the more normal singles, but still, it made Fred and I wonder if some other municipality had come up with the idea of dumping their homeless population on San Francisco and hoping we wouldn’t notice the extras since we have so many to start with.  And, in fact, by today, we seem to be back to our average crazy guys arguing with the trash can kind of day.

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why can’t there be guys like this who need a home?

 

 

Men Don’t Make Passes

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I have mentioned I am an idiot before, haven’t I?  I use fancy big words, occasionally correctly, but I am actually a loon.  My new location means that I don’t have to drive hardly at all.  Groceries, drug store, cafe, crazy lady screaming and exposing her genitals, all within easy walking distance.  I have a fabulous painting Super Agent Fred did of Catherine Deneuve I wanted framed, so this afternoon I took it to the framer with the best reviews in the city and who is literally right around the corner.

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Not this, but equally as arresting.

On the odd occasion that I have had to hit the road, I noticed my vision has once again gotten worse.  Considering how incredibly myopic I am, it seems almost impossible for it to decline any further, but no.  And it seemed to have happened unusually quickly.  Street signs remained stubbornly out of focus,  bumperstickers continued to be a closed mystery to me, and I kept assuring myself that last bump was just more of San Francisco’s lack of infrastructure maintenance and not some unfortunate pedestrian.  I gave in and got new glasses.  Actually new lenses in the frames I’ve had for 20 years now because I like them and it saves me the bother of picking out a new pair.  In fact, I liked them so much, years ago I bought second pair.  Now I get new lenses to replace the oldest one and what were the new ones become the backups.

If you are not bothered by impaired vision, you will never know the thrill of putting on a new pair of glasses.  The world spring into crystalline perfect focus. You realize the person you’ve been addressing as Super Agent Fred is in fact a young woman who has no idea why you continue to bother her.  The universe becomes a place you can see.

I was delighted right up until I tried to use my computer andI was back to the world of blurry.  That was when I remembered that a couple of years ago, when last I got new glasses, the charming doctor suggested I get a pair for the odd distance that computer screens tend to sit at.

When I wear my contact lenses I put on reader glasses to read (duh) or dab at the computer.  If I had on my glasses, I would put the readers on over them, a look that is guaranteed to draw stares from your more fashionable companions.  His point was to have one pair for long distance and one for using a screen.  I agreed with him, got the glasses and promptly forgot about them.

As I recalled this, I realized that in the chaos of moving over here, I had somehow stumbled on my computer glasses and been wearing them, simply more out of focus than usual.  Luckily the frames I handed over to have new lenses were actually my long distance ones, so now they are doing a fabulous job of letting me see what is going on around me.

And my computer glasses are typing this right now.  And I am an idiot.

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Is this boy an Idiot?  Possibly.  Would anyone care?  Care about what?

Gay Day

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So this was the scene the day before Gay Pride.  Quiet, sunny, perfect.  The big parade is downtown, but there’s a Dyke March up here the day before.  I invited some friends from my schmancy new apartment and they dropped in and then pointed out the time I scheduled the party was a few hours after the actual march because, you know, details.  We had a lovely time.

I had a neck ache on the actual Gay Pride celebration day, so the cat and I celebrated by taking a nap.  Besides, as I’ve said before, I’m already gay enough.

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Why can’t they have a parade like this?

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This is my idea of Gay Pride.

 

Aluminmania

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I mentioned once, in a long gone post, that I had a vast collection of the aluminum platters and and dishes and other hostess ware that was so very fashionable in the Fifties   when I was barely out of the egg.  At one point, thirty years ago or so, they were more than abundant in the thrift store circuit.  Junk stores were awash in them.  I was tired of pining over the cool mid century pieces I couldn’t afford when I went to a friend’s yard sale and bought my first two pieces.   I decided I would buy them whenever I rana cross them and they were less than $2.

Over the years, I stretched my budget al the way up to $5 and very rarely, something really spectacular, sprang for as wild as ten bucks.  Even with those parameters I managed to amass quite a pile.  And that’s exactly what it was: a pile.   Stacks and heaps and teetering columns in every corner I could find.  It was a testament to R Man’s love that he put up with it.

Finally, he announced I had to do something with all the various trays that had once been the pride of Bennie Lou Spitzer and other hostesses of the White Trash Nation.  Late one evening, I started out putting some up on the walls of out downstairs half bath.  By the time I finished  had this:

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Th effect was pretty spectacular.  Guests would emerge spluttering and wild-eyed.  One down side I had not expected was when some velcro would give way and the platter would crash to the floor with a terrifying kaboom.  Why this always happened about 3:00 AM we’ll never know.  I blame ghosts.

When I sold the house, the buyers asked what I was going to do with the collection.  I thought they wanted to buy and offered to sell it.  Turns out they just wanted to make sure I took it with me and didn’t leave it behind for them to deal with.  Pussies.

Well, deal with it I did, finally.  When I pulled it down from the bathroom, it wound up filling the car.  I rattled around with it as a passenger for a few days before I finally dragged it all up to the apartment.  It spent a few days sullenly taking up room.  I realized it would stay in al those bags and baskets forever unless I tackled it.

Step 1) Unpack it all so I could see what I was going to be dealing with:

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Step 2) Go find the Valium

Step3) Stick the motherfuckers up.  It turned out to be incredibly easy.  I used industrial strength adhesive velcro.  Bot of the outsides of the each velcro strip were adhesive.  Really, really adhesive.  You had better be damn sure where that stuff was going, cause otherwise, all you can do is learn to live with it.  But all it was stick the velcro to the back of the aluminum, mash it against the wall, repeat.  The most difficult part was pealing the film off the adhesive side.  My trick was to slide the blade of an Xacto knife under the film and then just peel away.  It’s also a very effective way to stab yourself in the thumb repeatedly.

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In the end, it wasn’t so bad, a couple of rather trying nights, or rather, very early mornings.  Once again, my energy, stamina and interest level are all at their peak right around 3:00 AM so it was a good thing all of this was essentially silent.  Peeling back the backing, screeching under my breath when I stabbed myself with the Xacto blade (Man, those things hurt,) and trying to keep Saki out of the peels.  Saki has an insatiable love of eating plastic and this particular kind of plastic has exactly the texture.  He’s like a junkie around it.

The downside is that since it is pave for the hall, there’s no way to get a photo of the whole thing.  You’l have to take my word for it, the effect is rather startling.  In a good way.

Also, our dear friend Mikey, a star of that filthy Chaturbate site has sent me a picture of him that he wants put up here so mrpeeenee readers can go be salacious, should you care to do so:

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mikeys address is chaturbate playwithme55

He’s very entertaining.

 

Back in the Culinary Saddle

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At one time I was a regular and good cook.  I made dinner most nights, whipped up dinner parties for our worthless friends, even shared kitchen duties with Diane von Austinburg, which is not easy for the poor victims who have tried to work with me.  But the saintly Diane is the only exception.  If it’s not her, get out of my fucking kitchen, I’m working.

After R man died I … withdrew from cooking.  It wasn’t anything planned, I just wasn’t interested any more and cooking for one person is so dull.  It was easier to live on cookies and sandwiches from the deli at the top of the canyon.  Anyway, some of  you may remember last March I came out of my cooking coma by whipping up a batch of custard.  It was such a success I followed with batch after batch.  Nothing quite like a prim little cup of custard when one is feeling peckish.

So now, Here I am in my new kitchen taking in out for test spin, so to speak.  Adjustments  like where do you line up the ingredients, and where is the stirring spot, and, most importantly it turns out, how does the oven feel like cooperating.  Hmmmmm.  I just hit the time in my old oven when, without fail, the custard was ready.   Here I opened the door to jiggle the pan and see if it had.  Nope.  Cups full of sloshy eggy juice.  Oh dear.

I had had such hopes; it seemed sort of like if the first batch came through, it must be a good omen.  I gave them another 7 minutes in there and just tried them again.  Still slopping around.  Plus Tom Petty’s “American Girl” is playing with it’s all too appropriate verse:

God it’s so painful
Something that’s so close
And still so far out of reach

Custard.  Still out of reach.

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And then followed by the Stones

Don’t make a grow man cry.

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Followed by Queen

We will rock you

Which may be a good sign? Maybe?  Custard has to set up.  Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

I sign off with Buffalo Springfield’s anthem to paranoia

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stop, children, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down

And now I have completely lost any through line I might have had.