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.

Skin Deep

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So, after cleaning up all the scrapes and scraps and cuts and bits that came from my fight with the garden, I tried to be extra conscientious about keeping it clean and sterilized and, of course, it took about a day and a half to get infected.  I wound up on antibiotics that I finished yesterday, yay, with only puking once.  Any prescription that ends in “…xin” is guaranteed to do a job on my delicate stomach.  So that’s over, I’m guzzling yogurt to replace all the flora and fauna that the meds killed off in my gut and things will be great very soon.

In the meantime, let us turn our attention to a much more appealing topic, the ever popular Muscle Pussy.  I always try to include some example of it in my posts because 1) it amuses me and 2) there is so much of it available now through the magic of the internet.  When I was a young poof, I could never have dreamed of a day when there was such a wealth of beefcake spread out before us.

Usually, I just paste up some taut skinned youth and don’t really discuss it, but today I have to protest this beauty’s tragic choice of body adornment, or “ink” as the youth of today would have it.

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Look at that flawless, smooth, clear, satiny skin, tagged with the stupidest array of strip mall tattoo parlor art I’ve ever seen.  It looks like he just wandered in between his shifts at the Olive Garden and had them slap on whatever they had time to finish before he had to get back to work.

Oddly enough, considering what an old codger I am, I don’t mind tattoos in general, but if you’re going to cover a lot of ground with them, there should be some idea or concept that pulls them together in a cohesive style.  You know this boy, on the other hand, doubtless has Bart Simpson in there somewhere.  “Molly.”  Really?  What happens when Molly decides she’s a lesbian after all and dumps you and your beautiful tits?  And “1994”?  I remember 1994, sort of, what about it?  I know, it’s probably when he was born, which makes having this much numbnuts stupid tats just that much worse.  I can’t get over how lovely his skin is.  It’s like he has no pores.  To cover any of it seems like a waste.

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Then we have this boy, with a much more discreet and attractive… something.  And I’m talking about the tattoo, by the way.  I don’t know, is it backwards?  So he can read it while he admires his big, fat man piece in the mirror?  Is it “This end up” in latin?  Who knows?  And leopard skin hair!  I haven’t seen leopard skin hair since I was a gay young thing.  And that was a long time ago.

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And this last boy just because I thought he was pretty and had such lovely eyes.

All these came courtesy of the fascinating tumblr site Sparticus 2000 .  I cannot recommend cruising around there enough.

Thug Garden

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Everyone who is even an occasional gardener knows that, inevitably, the garden fights back.  One goes into this with vague images of looking like Scarlet O’Hara surrounded by her delicately scented vale.  Then you run into the reality that the only scarlet is supplied by the bloody gash you have.

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Which of course brings us to yesterday.  My gardener, Z,  was here and we were standing in the middle of the yard discussing what is a weed and what is a fortuitous invader (the distinction can be difficult) when, all of a sudden, I was falling.  I assume I shifted my weight and the terrain, steep, rocky, and very uncertain of foot did the rest.  I have no real idea what started the whole thing; one minute I was upright, the next I was a small avalanche.

Anyway, once I fell I started to roll and bounce the rest of the way.  I came to rest wedged against a tree fern.  Never have I been so glad to see a tree fern.

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This is sort of how I landed, except a) it wasn’t on purpose and b) I certainly did not look that good.

Z was very concerned and helped me to my feet, which was no small task.  I was sort of between two beds and not terribly accessible, plus I was shaken.  And stirred.  In the words of Warren Zevon, the yard “really worked me over good … /Sort of like a Waring blender.”

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What a lovely garden accessory.

Fortunately, I was wearing long pants and along sleeved shirt, but I was still a bloody mess.  A collection of cuts and scratches and a couple of big-ish places where the top layer of skin was scraped back and all manner of garden debris shoved up under the remaining skin.  I was a mess.

Super Agent Fred was at hand, luckily, and able to help with the bandaging.  Fred is sort of living here now and I realized how nice it is to have someone beside the cat around during these crises.

Now, of course, the worse ache has dropped by. I woke up with the distinct impression that several Trolls had beaten me with their collection of hammers.  So I’m signing off now to go find the opiate and the valium and my bed.

Once again, the garden wins.

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Better even than Miss O’Hara

It’s the Weather

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I been trying to scrape up the energy to post something, but energy seems to be thin on the ground these days.  Mostly, it’s hot.  I know my readers everywhere but here have been dealing with the atmosphere turning into something like a slow roasting oven, but this is San Francisco!   We do not do hot weather.  It is an outrage.  Records all over the place being broken, with temperatures over 100, which is something in Celsius, who knows?  It is fucking hot, how’s that?

My house has no air conditioning, which is pretty much never a problem, except when it is.  Like now.  How I hate to climb into a bed with the sheets already warm.  And only a sad fan huffing hot air around like that helps.

Last night, in the middle of sweating and being grouchy, I suddenly smelled smoke.  Wildfires are all around us and smoke has been kind of a background scent for weeks, but this was, suddenly, much stronger and getting more pungent fast.  More neighbors and I gathered in the street in this vague sort of way, asking each other “Do you smell smoke?”  I think if I had announced “No, I do not” in a firm voice, everyone would have just said “Oh, great. Thanks” and wandered back home.  Instead, I said, I was calling the Fire Department.  There was a sense of great relief.  Turns out no one wants to be the one to deal with bureaucracy, but I worked for the government my whole career.  Bureaucracy is my home turf.

So I called and the emergency operator was incredibly chill.  Speaking with her was like tuning into the Mellow Jam Hour.  Eventually the firetrucks rolled in, one on each end of the street, cause apparently someone else called and one end of the my street is one fire station and the other end is another.  Fine with me, they were as cute as the cliché.  When you apply to be a firefighter, do you have to send in a headshot?

The tromped through my house, complimented me on both my decorating and my garden (this is so San Francisco) and poked around in the brush that fills the canyon behind me.  We all agreed, yes, you could smell the smoke (which made me feel better; at least I’m not crazy in that general direction,) the short cute one said “It doesn’t smell like   a brush fire, it’s too sweet.” “Like cedar” I said and he agreed with charming enthusiasm.  If it got any more gay cozy, we were all going to have to plan brunch.

 

 

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I swear, this is what showed up when I called 911 for the fire truck.  I may have to set a fire out back myself.

We went back out front and the  truck from the alien firehouse came down to chat with their fire man buddies (probably planning brunch) and eventually toddled on off.  The smoke faded, still with no cause, and the cat and I went back to watching porn.

The hot weather finally broke around dawn, but the huge fire down in Los Angeles has already made its way up here and is making my eyes burn and my sinuses dribble down my throat.  I’m slowly drowning in my own snot.

On to more weather news, but this without humpy firemen.  My father, my remaining brother, 5 of my nephews andneices and their nigh countless children, all still live in Houston, where a no-big-deal hurricane hit late last week and then stalled and dumped an astonishing flood.  More than 50 inches in one day.  San Francisco’s annual rainfall average is less than 24 inches.

My brother and I have been texting, him airily assuring me everything’s fine, which is what everyone in my family says right up to the point when they have to scramble out of the kitchen window to escape.  When I was in high school, the morning I was supposed to leave on our senior trip, our neighborhood was so flooded, my neighbor and classmate Stephanie and I were ferried out in a National Guard truck.  We made quite an entrance at school that day.  And then Stephanie and I went off to the beach for the weekend, leaving our mothers behind to cope.  But they were tough old Texas gals, didn’t bother them.  Probably glad to be rid of us, they spent the day drinking beer and watching to see if their houses were going to flood.  The houses didn’t, but they did run out of beer and so they talked the National Guard guys into giving them a ride to the liquor store.

Now that, motherfuckers, is Texas.

I Wish I had a Man Around the House

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The refrigerator started making an ominous thumping noise a few days ago like the bass line from the trailer for a bad science-fiction movie.  Two days later it was colder outside than in.  Our old plumber had died.  Thats how long we’e lived here, we have outlived our service guys, so I had to find a new one.  I had one in mind like this:

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The opening shot of sooooooooooooo many vids.

But he answered the phone with a dense Russian accent,  so I had to adjust my fantasy pipe layer to something more like this:

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Yu vant your pipe laid?

He came out and said the freezer drain and gotten plugged and turned the bottom of the freezer into an ice berg.  A thaw, an extra copper wire to heat the drainpipe more effectively. and a couple of hundred bucks.   Do I really have to mention he did not look like any of these Slavic dreamboats?  Amazingly, at least I didn’t have to buy a new refrigerator.

I love my house, but I hate taking care of it.  There is a constant sense that I should be doing more and since my daily schedule is rather relaxed.

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I suppose it’s not exactly The Impossible Dream.

So when my tub began draining slowly (and for a boy raised in the swamps to notice means the water is REALLY  leisurely on its exit,) I decided to fix it myself.  It helped my confidence that I had done this before.  The seal is actually a small bucket shaped thingy (wittily called “a bucket.”) that hangs from two brass rods that connect to the back of the plate that holds the little switch.

I got the bucket and wires, took the bathtub drain apart, with a great deal of assistance from the cat, and found out,  naturellement, I had gotten the wrong part.  It’s not the bucket, its the lever the bucker connects to. I hd simply allowed myself to be swayed by the dream that a plumbing device was called a bucket.  On the bright side, the wee little bucket is just the right size for the Barbie Doll Diorama I’m still planning on creating.

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Ginger, Bite Us

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You know what I adore?

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The pink nipples on redheads.  Especially those that have perfected that “Wounded Fawn”  expression.  Possibly it’s a lack of expression, whatever.

Also, Saki has taken to walking on the keyboard to explain his disapproval of me not attending to my chin scratching duties.  And then he bites me.

Super Agent Fred and I ran into some old chums who were showing some out-of-towners the sights.  Or is it “sites?”  Anyway, one of them turned out to work at the Dept. of State so she and I were talking about the hilarities of government employment.  After they toddled off, I realized she had not been born when I started working for the Small Business Administration and that lots of the points I referred to are ancient history to her.

Not all of them, of course, the main one being how odd it is to work in a federal agency during an election.  We were supposed to be strictly apolitical, but the heads of all the agencies are appointed by the President and so the push to make all our accomplishments that much more bright and shiny was not terribly subtle.  Also, since SBA had an inordinate number of political appointees, every time the administration changed, so did most of the jobs all the way down to right above my head.  My what fun, watching the fatter cats sweat, knowing they were likely soon to be looking for some other cushy job.

Anyway, it was interesting gassing on about the old days to some puppy who must have mostly wondered “What the fuck?”  Well, she’ll learn.  I certainly did.

Meanwhile I’m going to go look for some redheads.

Legends Fall

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Saturday June 22 will be the funeral of Jim French.  I’m sure a big chunk of my readers know this and also know who Jim French is.  What he was was simply the best erotic photographer, ever.  Ever.

 

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Mike Betts

He started a called a business called “Colt Studios” in 1967.  The Post Office had recently lifted the ban on sending pictures of hard dicks through the mail.  French was a man in the right time.

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Doug Perry

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Can you ever have too much Doug Perry?  Nonsense.

Before him, gay smut was black and white with whatever trashy hustler/rent boy the photographer scraped up that day.  French shook all that up.  His early work is klutzy, understandably, but once he got his footing, goodness, how everything changed.

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Ray Mars

For one thing, French was a good photographer with a background in shooting fashion.  His lenswork was admirable, crisp and well balanced, but his real talent was lighting a set.  Never had bulging muscles been so three dimensional, cocks and asses gleaming and inviting.  And he was interested in their faces too, which other photographers never even looked at.  His only weakness was in posing his subjects.  There’s a lot of classic body-building style or stiffly interacting with some prop that’s sort of quaint.

 

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Jerry Haymes

One of his best and most frequently reused pose, is where he is on the ground beneath the model, shooting up at those mountainous titties.  The pose didn’t do much for me, but I recognize it for what it is: worship.  His best shots were the models lounging around looking supernaturally gorgeous.  Every muscled honed to perfection and symmetry as perfect as a plumline.

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Billy Herrington

The real zenith of Colt was being reached right at the time I was flaming out into la vie homosexual and many, many of Colt’s models matched the creatures who populated my fantasies.  Good heavens, how thrilled I would be to find a new Colt magazine at the dirty book store.  With no internet, Colt’s magazines were the best thing we had   Even now, 30 years later, Colt Studios, which French sold in the 90s, still use images from those long gone glory days to flog their merchandise.  Sometimes I look around in the Castro and think “Some of these little old men in their cardigans and knee braces, shuffling home to feed the cat were the godlings French aimed his lens at.”

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Mike Timber

I’m illustrating this with my favorites, I know many of you have your own.  I encourage you to dig them out on Saturday and remember the man who made them possible.  And then rub one out.

Uninvited Guests

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I was on the patio a few days ago, reveling in the warm sunshine while I was watering the potted plants.  The blank, halfwit expression I wear while doing something so mundane disappeared when I realized I was staring at a skunk about 3 feet away from me and turned into panic.   I changed my plans for watering the big pot he was hanging around in and backed away into the house.

For the rest of the day, the skunk strutted around the patio as I watched him through the windows.  Eventually Saki joined me and instead of assuming some fierce tiger-like pose. ready to pounce if I would give him the chance, he sat there studying the skunk like it was some not-very-interesting TV.  Saki is strictly and indoor cat, so I’m not sure he understands the outside actually exists.  He got bored and wanted me to scratch his chin.

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Saki’s idea of vermin control

Then two nights ago, I opened the door to the downstairs bathroom (which I hardly ever use) and saw a largish rat perched on the edge of the toilet.  Was he contemplating suicide?  We’ll never know because I screamed like a little girl and slammed the door shut.

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So today we have the rodent guy out to rain death down upon them.  Or at least some kind of trap.  He and I took a tour around the outside of my house while he pointed out all the gaps and holes in the structure which apparently turn my home into some kind of Rodent Marriott.   Come on in guys, welcome!

 

Daze Gone By

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Preach, sister, preach.

We had a lovely and far too short visit with dear, dear Diane von Austinburg last week.  Because my thrilling lifestyle consists mostly of sleeping, I would stumble downstairs and we would go out to dinner, come back and I would stumble upstairs to go back to sleep.  I know some people would have problems with livin’ on that particular edge, but I do not.

Diane shoved off on Thursday (I should mention Saki, the cat, does not like visitors.  Any visitors.  Every visit, Diane spends all her efforts at convincing him that he does not suspect her of low habits and misdeeds.  Diane reports gleefully every time Saki deigns to allow her to pet him without bloodshed.  I’m not impressed, because this almost inevitably  occurs when I’m holding him, most often in a headlock.  So Saki spent all day Thursday stalking around the house to make sure Diane (whom he refers to as “That Guy”) is actually gone.

I spent Friday crushing a giant nap.  I would wake up when Saki yelled in my ear about how he was starving, feed him, take my meds, and go back to dreaming about living in some grim institutional building that I was decorating.  One of those things where I couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or not.

And then, just now, I got out of bed during the daytime (it happens) and thought how very much I would like coffee from Peet’s and some of their delectable little pastry items. And so I rolled downhill into the Castro.

I found an empty parking space (the only one in all of the Castro Neighborhood,) tried to pay the meter, cause the meter maids apparently have a special bounty system set up for my poor old car, and the meter gaily announced “FREE PARKING.”   Really?  I wasn’t going to look a no cost parking space in the mouth, so I wafted on towards Peet’s when I suddenly wondered “Could today be Sunday?”  Hmmmmm.

One of the things I like about my phone is a special feature it has for the forgetful and easily confused (that would be me) where it announces the day and date every time you kick it into gear.  Sure enough,  it confirmed my suspicion that today is, indeed, the Lord’s Day.

I’m perfectly happy with Sunday, bringing with it free parking, as I mentioned, and a great many young muscular mens wandering around without much in the way of clothing to hinder one’s ogling.  But this brings to mind the question “What happened to Saturday?”  It’s not a Lost Weekend, more like a temporarily mislaid day.

Trying to recreate some idea of how I had spent June 10, I turned to my computer, cause I’m all modern and hip and stuff.  The history there informs us that for some equally mislaid reason I looked up Marguerite Albert.  Mlle. Albert turns out to have been an early 20th century Parisian red hot mama.  Sued the Prince of Wales, lived across the street from the Ritz in Paris, murdered her husband and got away with it.  A role model for us all.

Aside from that and a few visits to the dwindling number of blogger friends I still maintain, there was nothing informative on the computer;  the car is where it’s supposed to be and all its pieces are still where they started out.  There are no inexplicable stains, or no new ones anyway.  Turning to Saki as a source of information, ugh.  He just leaves the room and either plays with his catnip sausage rope or pees in one of the many places he shouldn’t.  Sadly,  there are no unfamiliar young men snoring away in the guest room.

 

tumblr_orasfpC4Sq1qkopyqo1_500Let us be clear.  If anything even vaguely resembling this turned up, I would immediately start composing some lie about how we had gotten married after a whirlwind romance; some Lucy-and-Ethel kind of shenanigan. He doesn’t look very suspicious minded or like he has the mental high capacity to catch me out.  Tragically, it’s just me and Saki as far as I can tell.

Oh well, as I mentioned once in a long ago post: I say if the police aren’t asking uncomfortable questions, it’s probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks.  Or day, for that matter.

 

An Undeserved Miracle

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I had dinner tonight from Munchery.  They’re a company that cooks and delivers meals to people who are too lazy to get off their indolent butts and actually make food for themselves, people for whom going out to a restaurant is too much trouble.   People like me.

Their food ranges from pretty OK to not awful.  It is always better than plenty of things I’ve had in actual restaurants.  Tonight I had a steak and potato gratin, both of which were very good, and two desserts.

I have taken to ordering two desserts in restaurants.  If they have two listed that I can’t decide between, I figure, what the hell.  The servers frequently seem shocked, as if I’m indulging in some excessive madness, a bacchanal of sweets.

So tonight I had a chocolate cheesecake and a grapefruit chiffon pie.  Grapefruit motherfucking Chiffon Pie.  Doesn’t that sound thrillingly exotic?  Turns out it was bland and the crust was tough as something NASA would come up with to protect astronauts’ phones.  I pushed the cheesecake aside, cleaned up and eventually went to bed.

In my world, going to bed almost always leads to waking up a couple of hours later, in the dark with nothing to do.  “I wish,” I thought to myself,  “that I had something sweet.”  I got up and set out for the kitchen to forage for cookies or, if nothing else, toast and jelly.

Imagine my thrill at discovering a piece of chocolate cheesecake.  It may not rate with the appearance of Our Lady at Lourdes, but at the moment, I preferred it.  Unless Mary was holding a whole carrot cake, which, obviously, is the only thing that would have been an improvement.

Between bites, I made an impromptu novena, thanking whichever saint is in charge of pastries, because they certainly had come through, delivering the answer to my prayers before I even composed them.

This just in: the patron saint of pastries is St. Honore, duh, for whom those fabulous creampuff cakes are named.  Gateau St. Honore, a cake made out of cream puffs.  Could anything be more fabulous?  Well, short of discovering an unexpected cheesecake in the middle of the night.

We give thanks to St. Honore.

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Cream Puff

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Or Gateau St. Honoré.  Which would you rather find in your kitchen about 2:00 AM?

Grocering

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I took time out of my hectic schedule of sleeping and watching ridiculously attractive boys do nasty things on Chaturbate to go to the store and buy soap for the dishwasher.  I wound up staggering back to the car with two bags full of the most random things that might be called groceries ever seen.  $76 worth of chemically processed crap.

When I got home and unloaded my haul I realized it looked like I had gone shopping wearing a blindfold and with a very sketchy idea of how to cook.  A six pack of those cheese crackers filled with peanut butter.  A box of plain water crackers for cheese, only to discover I had the exact same unopened product already at home.  But no cheese.

Let’s see, what else, Doritos.  Somehow I always wins up coming hoe from the grocery with a bag of Doritos.  I think they must hand it to me as I enter and I just don’t notice.  I seem to enter into some kind of fugue state as the doors close behind me, sealing me in with all the other shambling, clueless Safeway shoppers.  I wander the aisles, aimlessly foraging and after a while, I leave, almost always without at least one item I specifically went to buy.

but I got some nice bananas and some nectarines.  We’ll see about them, it takes a few days on the shelf to either ripen into perfection or turn into moldy knobs.

R Man and I used to go to the store each Saturday, armed with lists and sense of purpose and prepare ourselves for the week ahead.  Now I find myself looking over into other shoppers carts to get ideas about what I might want to consume.

At least I got the dishwasher soap.

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nothing to do with groceries, but who’s complaining?