Category Archives: bloggers

Dinner’s at Your Own Risk

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I’m making lime Jello with marshmallows.   I had been heating up some lentils and burned the piss out of my hand and since I’m already on so much pain medicine any more would probably make me blow up like the Macy Day balloon, I took some valium to see if that would help and it probably would have, except a moment later I forgot about the valium and took an ativan.  Valium is for tension and ativan is for anxiety, so I was very calm, but depressed.  So I made the Jello Lime Marshmalow surprise.  Muscato always claims that will be his signature number when he takes up drag and Muscato has been on mind a lot of late, ever since the Dinner Party.

It started out innocently enough; don’t they always?  SuperAgent Fred and I met Muscato and Mr. Muscato, whom I had not had the pleasure before.  And what a pleasure.  Lazy, sexy smile and SUCH eyelashes.  Sophia Loren doubtless has an international hit squad out on them at this very minute.  Maybelline has built an empire attempting. and failing, to immaculate such flawless beauty.

We killed some time waiting for the last two of the party.  I should explain, Muscato had sent me a text sort of laying the groundwork, listing the many points I was not to touch on during our lovely time together.  To wit: my blog (fine, what feeble marketing I do is not difficult to squelch,)  his blog (Mr. Muscato only “sort of” knows of its exsitence and some of Muscato’s more open and frank thoughts on domestic bliss might not be all that one wants one’s partner dwelling on.

Also, the fact that our other two guests (one of whom was a college chum of Muscato’s, back during when they were haveing lively debtes about suferagette rights) and who, with his husband now lead lives of blames virtue, but who for a short while dabbled in porn.

Well.  You can imagine how that perked up my shell-like ears, but Muscato was firm.  Unless the boys brought up their lurid past themselves, there would be no probing into behind the scene tell-alls.  I was crushed, crushed I tell you.

Also, when they rolled in, I recognized neither of them.  I might not be totally encyclopedic on the topic of performers of porn, but I am fairly well-informed.  Their absence in my memory banks pointed me to assuming they either worked recently (most of my deepest research into the subject lays in the 1980 – 2010 era) or that they possibly worked in some niche too freaky for my attention.  But they seemed like such nice boys.

You know my job history has honed my ability to hash out small talk to an art, but their was no need for my mastery that evening.  Mme. Muscato seized the steering wheel and laid in a course of Our Happy Years After School and Before Responsibility.

Fred said the one by him was quiet, the one down at my end of the table, that Muscato had known in school, laughed and went with the flow, and was cute. Both of them were.  Whatever led them from the world of fistfucking on film, it was not any loss of the looks.  We had faces then, Norma cries, and these boys still do.  And tits.  And big arms.

Somewhere between the salad and the entrée, I began to wonder if Muscato were having one of those “The one the got away” moments about Mr. Porn Star, but we’ll never know because of all the forbidden conversation topics.  I think Muscato at one point forbade bringing up the Taft Hartley Act of 1947.  Who knows.  It’s probably somewhere in the Do Not Disclose agreement.

As usual, I exaggerate wildly.  Except they really were porn stars.  It was most amusing hearing Muscato’s stories, which are beyond anything my shallow existence has brought my way.  Muscato has walked among Stars, baby, Stars.  I wish I could have spoken more with Mr. Muscato, he seemed affable and sweet and if nothing else, staring at his eyelashes for a half hour or so would have been fine with me.  I understand they had been in a bear bar the night before where the Mr. brought about either a stampede and a riot or a riot and a stampede.  Details were sketchy.

Anyway, I had a good time, the gumbo was tasty and I like hanging with Muscato.  He is window into a far distant world.

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We can start our search for the mystery guests by process of elimination.  The meaty gent engaged here was NOT one of them.  I think we’re getting close.

Muscatoed

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le Muscato.  Artist’s impression

Those few of you among us with their memories still intact might recall that that blogger among bloggers, Muscato from over at Cafe Muscato, blew into San Francisco for some business meeting inflicted by his employers, Golden Handcuffs, earlier this summer.  We enjoyed a couple of quiet evenings together, but never got around to the thrilling San Francisco touring I had promised.

So when the old darling announced he would be back, I was determined to make up for my lackluster show last time.  Sadly, the results were only so-so once again.  This time, my lazy ass laziness was not entirely to be blamed.  The weather was, unusual for the Bay Area, not co-operative.   With more than a week and a half of heavy rains and dank the local scene would would fit in perfectly for the East Coast he was attempting to escape.

Still, we had a charming lunch at Neiman’s.  Muscato allowed how he had never crossed their sacred threshold, so I was delighted to introduce him to one of the grande dames of shopping.  In the Texas of my youth, Neiman’s defined a certain type of quietly stylish and extremely well-heeled Ladies.  These sad times have marked a slide in how much of the 1 Percent still hang their heads there, but the proportion of Good Hand Bags was encouraging.

The Bacchanal was rather subdued.  Neither of us drink much now and Muscato (as perhaps you recall) had a couple of serious heart ailments recently-ish and is being very, very good about sticking with his diet, virtue which can cut into a real Ladies Who Lunch kind of repast.

I am so impressed with Muscato’s determination to stick with his diet.  I know I couldn’t make it past the patisserie around the corner from his office.  There would Dr. Mark be, explaining the evils of carbohydrates while I would be wondering if I could get to the bakery before they ran out of the squishy red berry compote.

Then we rolled out to the far edge of town to a park that was large fort and barracks since the city was founded in the late 18th century.  Now it’s an odd, but lovely chunk of greenery in this very urban corner and includes the very site where Kim Novak throws herself into the Bay in Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo.  The mention of that bit of history had Muscato ready to go like a terrier at a rat.

How disappointing then, that the storm that had been stomping us all week had also brought down a couple of truly enormous eucalyptus trees across the one narrow road that goes out to our destination (technically, it’s Fort Point, but it has such Vertigo induced fame, they really should give up and just call it Point Kim.)

Clouds blew back in by then and had a somber stroll through the AIDS memorial grove, a charming site, but more than a little sad for those of us of a certain age.

and speaking of our certain age, Muscato mentioned how attractive a nap sounded about then an I agreed with an alacrity which might have been the teeniest bit over enthusiastic, but it did sound good.

So Muscato will  be here through the weekend; we plan dinner Friday night when Mr.Muscato will be here and I’ll have a chance to meet him.  I’m terribly excited.   I might not have mentioned to Muscato my history of making up lurid stories about friends when coming across their partners for the first time, I’m sure we’ll find out.

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Of Course, what would an afternoon with a couple of old queens be without an ongoing appraisal of the youth passing by.  Muscato tends towards these dark, pirate-y type.

 

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While we all know my heart belongs to the more luscious, debaseable type.

Flights of Angels and Naked Muscley Boys

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I think the best thing about Christmas is its end.  It doesn’t trail off, or go out with a whimper; Boxing Day and that’s that.  Pack up all the ersatz sentimentality and the go go boys in elf hats and move on.  Safe for one more year from Bing Crosby and David Bowie sneering at each other over Little Drummer Boy.

Of course, one still needs to deal with  the snow drift of bad news that always shows up just in time for the New York Times’ teddibly, teddibly tasteful obituary extravaganza.  Every year, some loss just seems more bitter than others, or just too much cumulatively.  David Bowie AND Prince?

And some bad news that just adds to the sum of woe.  I don’t know how I missed the bulletin that Terry Jones of Monty Python has dementia, but I just stumbled on it this evening and then the very next page I opened was MJ’s Infomaniac to find out the charmingly insane Kabuki had died.

Several of us bloggers sort of started out as commenters on other more established sites and none of us was funnier or more droll and bizarre than Kabuki.  His comments were always less to do with the topic than they were news reports from deep left field.  They weren’t simply written, they were crafted.  Of course, tin foil hats that block the alien beams are crafted too.

Also, he was always very appreciative of not only the lurid photos I use as illustration here, but he always, ALWAYS, enthused the most over the very ones which I liked the best.  We were sympatico in the ways of feelthy pictures.  So, to wish farewell to a star, a gigastar unlike any other, here

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Cafe Life

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I don’t know what you little chickens may have been up to recently, but I have spent the last couple of weeks being entertained by the charming eponymous Muscato from Cafe Muscato .  The old dear was in town for work (or “work.” More on that later) and put up with my blathering for a couple of dinners and a long Saturday afternoon when I promised to show him around town, but which turned out to be nothing but a long coffee at Peet’s, a long trip to the hardware store, and then a long dinner.  I would like to point out it is an especially amusing hardware store and dinner was excellent.

Throughout, Muscato was the most amusing company one could ask for.  I plied him with all sorts of lies and exaggerations about my little life and was able to weasel out a great many of the details that he is so meticulously discreet about on his own site.  I would like to imply I am not sharing them because I am honoring his rectitude about personal items (mrpeenee, The Soul of Discretion.  There’s a laugh,) but actually, I’m not sure I really believe these stories of a blameless but colorful life from Broadway to Cairo.  It’s possible it was a carefully crafted cover story.  Two words: Black Ops, darling.

I can now picture Muscato ensconced in some sweaty Asian bar, murmuring instructions to a dead-eyed operative who then departs to unleash Jason Bournesque destruction while Muscato returns to his subterfuge as a North African taxi dancer.

I am not fooled by tales of domestic bliss and terriers.  Some day there will be congressional hearings replete with all sorts of redacted documents and takings of the Fifth and there will be our own Muscato, “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.” his only quote.

You just wait.

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The Discrete Charms of Muscato, left.  Who the guy in the background is is beyond me, but as you can see, he is noting every word of our scintillating conversation which I believe was probably about porn.  That came up a lot.  For heaven’s sake, he’s not even being subtle.

I Hate Writing. I Love Having Written.

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In an almost charming back-and-forth in the comment section of Cafe Muscato , Diane von Austinburg and Muscato were griping about my lack of writing, blogging, mash notes, whatever, so I’m ripping off a portion of an email I JUST SENT to Diane as proof that they’re full of baloney.  There.

to wit:

“I had a dream some person stole a baby and then I was reprimanding them for this and then, I don’t know, they died? Maybe? Anyway I wound up with the baby and was terribly confused.

Did I tell you about the path o’ destruction I found here when I came home? A busted window, a broken lamp, a hole in the office closet door, my keyboard and mouse replaced because the old had “gotten fried,” and the dried remains of some mysterious fluid splattered all over the upper stairwell and hall. Secret Agent Fred blamed Saki, Saki took that “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t” attitude cats are so fond of. I’m not sure I believe either of them.”

See?  I write.  News you can use, gossip, and slander all rolled up with possibly prophetic dreams.

Speaking of dreams:

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Also, while I’m recycling old emails to friends who don’t deserve them, here’s part of one I dashed off to Night is Half Gone’s Jason while we were ducking and weaving in New Orleans last month:

“two of my neighbors blipped up on Friday and tried to be trouble to me, but I charmed them into fucking off. Later, I mentioned to the contractor and one of his minions “I got 99 problems and that hag ain’t one of them.” Both of the guys seemed gratifyingly amused, less amusing was their attitude of complete astonishment that I could paraphrase rapper thugs. Bitch, what you looking at, I am down.”

I’m telling you, epistolary.

Seventeen Perfectly Good Reasons mrpeenee Hasn’t Blogged in Weeks

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I’m lazy.

Our dear, dear old chum Magda died earlier this month and while I wasn’t prepared to include here how sad the loss made me, I also didn’t feel like I could just ignore it either.  He was sweet as I am bitter and lovable as I am curmudgeonly and the world is a dimmer place without him.

Also, Magda was central to the house I purchased in New Orleans and its renovation.  He helped me pick out the furniture and was full of sensible suggestions about the reno and actually worked a great deal more on it than I did.  The fact that he died a little more than a week before I moved in and thus never saw the finished glory is galling, just galling.

And yes, I moved into the house last week.  Turns out moving into a house halfway across the country is hard.  More on that later.

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I am not about to mess up a perfectly good manicure typing this gibberish for all you ingrates, much as I love you.

The internet has run out of pictures of attractive young men for me to swipe and illustrate my posts with.  Wait, that’s not true.

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The world simply does not need another blog entry about how annoying cats who hog the whole bed are.

Speaking of Saki, he won’t get off the computer, so I couldn’t get to my blog.

If Mistress over at Infomaniac doesn’t have to blog, why should I?  I haven’t been bad.

I wasn’t feeling it.

The stupid little topknots all the stupid boys are wearing these days fills me such an unquenchable rage that I can’t concentrate on typing.

I had planned on writing while I was in New Orleans last week, but the gorgeous, enormous thunderstorms were just too distracting.  As much as I love San Francisco and our persistently beautiful weather here, I also miss the drama of a Gulf Coast storm.

Pudding.

I’ve been playing the old timey dice game Yahtzee on my phone with all my friends and crushing them in defeat has taken up all my attention.

I would think about writing a post and then think “I need a nap.”  Naps always win.

I’m still lazy.

In Which mrpeenee Dumps Blogger

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As with many of our dear blogging brothers and sisters, Blogger, the Google site I’ve always used to publish my deathless prose, sent me a charming little email that essentially said they had determined I was a filthy smut peddler and that I could delete all the dirty pictures they assumed my blog contained by March 23 or they would delete my blog for me.

I am not good about ultimatums; my automatic reflex is to say “Fuck you.”  Because there exists competition for Blogger (a name which is curiously close to “Booger,” don’t you think?) I was able to do just that, hence our new little home here in the rather sterile confines of WordPress.

The transition almost got the best of me since I foolishly looked up several articles on how to move from one to the other, all of which were astonishingly complicated.  In the midst of trying to follow one, rife with typos and which called out for a good editor, I accidentally stumbled on the embedded function of “export” in Blogger and “import” here. We’ll see how it goes.

I hope I don’t lose any of my old baby.  Aside from sharing the fascinating details of my day-to-day, it’s functioned as a diary of sorts and I would hate to miss out on all the sweet things you guys said about my wedding and the very important support I got when R Man was dying.

I realize I will lose all my Blogger Followers, but let’s get real; since my actual readership consists pretty much of the same 12 miscreants (and I love each and every one of you, truly,) I’m not sure what a big deal that might be.

And what is with Blogger anyway?  I already had that stupid “mature content” warning at the front of the blog, what more did they need?  “LOOK OUT!  DICK PIX AHEAD!!!”  In their ridiculous message to me they explained “We’ll still allow nudity presented in artistic, educational, documentary, or scientific contexts, or where there are other substantial benefits to the public” thus wading smack into the swamp of what is and what is not smut, a bog in which much finer minds than they appear to possess have perished.

Anyway, here we are.  It’s visually sort of bland, but I’m a gay man – redecorating is in my DNA.  Again, we’ll see. To celebrate, and to see if I can figure out how to include photos, here’s my new favorite imaginary boyfriend, Jaxton Wheeler, in a still life swiped directly from the fabulous Jason’s Tumblr Goldenfleecing. (ed. note.  I cannot figure out how to link out to Jason’s site.  Go find it.)

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Bonne Année et Bonne Santé

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I went off to Peet’s Cafe this afternoon for a cup o’ joe and some tasty bit and when I’d finished, I wandered off to the restroom to return the coffee, so to speak.  Of course it was occupied, so I waited and waited.  And WAITED.  Usually that’s bad sign because Peet’s, although dear to my heart, is a regular on the homeless guy circuit and any occupancy this long almost always concludes with some bag lady, having finished god knows what, wandering out leaving a pungent aftermath.

Thankfully, though, this time it was a mousy and respectable looking asian man who handed me the key without making eye contact and then scurried off.  I stepped in and was faced with a sort of still life: the wrapper from a moist toilette directly in front of the toilet and about halfway between it and the trash can, the corn husk from a tamale.  I wondered briefly what story all this implied, but then immediately knew that I didn’t really want to know.   I peed, washed my hands and kicked the detritus into more discreet positions so the guy in line behind me wouldn’t think they were mine.  You need to think about things like that in a small town.

I have no idea what tamales and toilettes have to do with this post, I was actually going to write about how I hoped this would get up before midnight and thus bolster my anemic count of entries for December.   I have three this year.  In 2008, my most prolific year, I had 18.  I keep saying I’m going to do better, afterall, I’m not doing anything else.  But then the cat or porn or, most often, slacker sloth gets in the way and suddenly there are no posts magically appearing.

I’m sure it’s not apparent, but I put thought into these gems of deathless prose.  Some anyway.  Frequently, I’ll get stuck struggling with the exact word I want tantalizing out of reach.  Maybe those this-is-your-brain-on-drugs ads were right; whatever.  So I’ll wander off trying to come up with the word “judicial” or “soliloquy” and come back later only to realize the whole thing is hash, delete it and start all over.  Or go watch porn.  It happens.

Tonight though, I was determined to force something out, however hashish, since I’m located on the Pacific Coast and thus of all my little blog friends, I’m pretty much the last one left here in 2014.  Unless there’s some lurker from Guam out there, and how likely is that?  And you’ll be reading this in 2015.  It’s like a really, really slow time machine!  With crappy spell check.

So anyway here is my last muscle pussy of the year (and a particularly demure one at that) and possibly your first one of the new

Happy New Year.

In Which mrpeenee Returns

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Cause mrpeenee likes to be stylin’ when he’s suffering through airport purgatory.

People of Earth, I know what very few posts I am able to scratch up here have lately turned into two flavors:

  • I’m going to New Orleans
  • I just got back from New Orleans.

This time I just skipped the “I’m going to New Orleans” part and I’m here to report I’m back.  Surely you missed me.  And was the old place charming as ever?  Why yes, yes it was.  Thanks for asking.  I had a great deal (possibly excessive) of deliciousness, including duck gumbo at a fancy place and shrimp remoulade at a decidedly not fancy place dear to my evil little heart.

I also got to hang out in a bar called Lafitte’s for their Tired Old Disco Night with Jason from Night is Half Gone.  Too fabulous, I only wish you could have been there.  The old darling really is charming, you know.  He assures us all the miscreants he teaches are wild for Beowulf this semester.  I’m skeptical, but he swears it.

He and I are were able to impress Secret Agent Fred with our in-depth knowledge of the song One Night in Bangkok.  I thought everyone knew it was from some odd Broadway musical named Chess about a real chess tournament held, logically, in Bangkok and written by the ABBA guys.  Didn’t you?

Fred brought along his boyfriend (yes, it’s true, he’s off the market.  Sorry.) who’s very fond of a snort or two so when Fred got bored standing around my house there watching me enthuse over drywall installation, I could send them off for drinkies and everyone was happy.

I particularly was happy because, at long last, drywall has been hung and you can now actually see the shape and size of the rooms.  Big, big yay.

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After, with the new exterior paint and the dumpster box out front which has apparently become a neighborhood fixture.

The back rooms before all the walls were ripped out to make one huge ass room.

  
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Huge ass ceiling of huge ass room.  And get off that beam, I paid too much for you to use it as a catwalk.

Out with Friends

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Secret Agent Fred and I went out for drinks and, eventually, pizza with longtime mrpeenee commenter Salty Miss Jill the other night.  She had blown in from the big city and I was delighted to meet her: she is both salty and sweet and I like meeting the people who bestir themselves to comment here.  It makes their sassy insolence seem more heartfelt.  Plus did I mention she was charming?  We wound up in the bar for a couple of hours talking blogger talk.  SMJ has allowed her blog to fall fallow and I was encouraging her to hit the keyboard once again.  I think there are just never enough amusing bloggers out there.  How else am I supposed to waste my time?

Also, she revealed that she had a waitressing past with teeny-tiny pornster Samuel Colt, which I think alone requires extensive blog coverage.