Category Archives: friends

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.

mucato

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.

This is How mrpeenee’s Brain Works

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I miss trouble

Space here on earth is a finite thing, you know, and I say if your reproductive system forces you to use one of those stupid double wide baby strollers, you are taking up too much of it.  Sell at least one of those squalling snot machines you’ve popped out and make room in the grocery store aisle for the rest of us.

My garden, the result of two decades of grubbing and ruined manicures, looks swell this year, despite a statewide drought.  Purple seems to be the overriding theme with irises that I transplanted loving their new home

iris

“City Light” iris. Wowza.

statice

Limonium, taking no prisoners and kicking horticultural ass.

and a tough ass piece called limonium, the dried purple flowers of which, statice, are the filler of choice for florists around the world.  It does fine every year, but occasionally decides that this is going to be a “Say-Something” season and this year is just that.  The lily looking plants next to it are crocosmia, which bloom with bright orange flowers that look splendid with the purple statice on those years when they both bloom simultaneously, but this is not one of those years.  That’s how gardens roll.

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Springtime in the French Quarter

pearl neon

My favorite neon in New Orleans.

I breezed down to New Orleans to check on the renovation of my house there and to check in on our old chum Magda.   The house is doing fine; Magda less so.  He will shortly have been incarcerated in the hospital system for a month and the doctors still have no clear idea about what’s causing his blood pressure and blood chemistry to roller coaster up and down and seem to regard this ignorance with a jaunty insouciance.

I was not much help while there; I was sort of unprepared for how much the whole experience of visiting the hospital would drag up visions of  R Man’s last uncomfortable days.  I know that’s selfish, but it was a very visceral reaction and one I could not get on top of.  I am ashamed.

st roch

The front porch of my soon-to-be ex-house. I would weep, but I have no tears.

Less traumatic than an old friend’s fragile health, but still pretty upsetting, is the news from my tax guy and my financial guy that my merry eviscerating of the IRAs I was living off of in order to finance the New Orleans’ renovation has actually moved me into a higher tax bracket, the rapacious taxes of which mean I will have to sell the house in order to pay the bill.  Irony.  I hate it.

New Orleans Keeps on Keeping On

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Remember when I said I was afraid to come to New Orleans since every time I did so, the estimate for the completion date of the renovation of my house here slips back a little farther?  Well, if you paid a little attention, you’d remember.  Anyway, sure enough I got here last night and less than 24 hours later, Sister Mary Legs in the Air broke the news that the newest deadline is May 24. When I was here in January, it was “the end of April.”  Adding an element of specificity does not fool me; this house will never know my loving touch.

Again, it’s my own fault for slipping into town, but honestly I had to.  Our dearest old chum, Magda, is ensconced in the hospital right now with his blood chemistry all whacked out.  I was trying to be helpful at a delicious lunch today with Magda’s boyfriend after we had spent the morning with the old thing and saying how important phosphorus was to the body’s function, which might or might not be true, but what I was trying to say was “potassium” not “phosphorous.”  Yeah, that’s what you need girl, get your phosphorous up and we’ll light you like a torch.  No wonder no one takes me seriously.

Truly, though, it’s troubling to see someone sick who’s closer to my heart than the riff raft I’m related to by blood even if we did share an amusing afternoon swapping stories about phlebotomists and catheters.  If ever there was a convincing argument for euthanasia, it’s two old queens who have a connoisseur’s insight into emergency rooms.

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So is this the kind of shenanigans that are holding up the renovation of my house?  

If so, they’re going on without me and I RESENT IT.

Season’s Beatings

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A dear old friend from our misspent college days in Austin appeared here in town and we got together for coffee, then lunch, then drinks and wrapped up with dual manicures.  It was the ultimate Ladies Who Lunch sort of experience and quite amusing.

As such things will do, the conversation eventually drifted over to masturbation.  Doesn’t it always?    A problem with consistently making an idiot of myself is that people don’t know when I’m being serious, so when I announced “I think masturbation is life affirming,” our dear old friend just laughed, but I wasn’t joking.  Spanking one’s monkey is pleasure for pleasure’s sake and what could be more life affirming than that?  For once, you’re not trying to prove anything to anyone, no one is keeping score, all the crap that keeps you down is momentarily put aside in favor of me, myself and I: my favorite three musketeers.  Nothing but you and whatever filth your id feels like dredging up.

Still, word has reached us that some consider the art of self love with distaste.  I say if God was against jacking off, why would he provide us with opposable thumbs and porn?  Are these people waiting for permission?  If so, mrpeenee hereby grants you the right too all the squeeze play you want.  So here’s to lightening the load.  Go ahead and rub one out right now.  Think of this as my christmas present to all of you.

Joyeux Noël

Wedding Belles, Part Two

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What a gay, romantic week it’s been here at the old chez peenee.  Two of our oldest friends, Cow Queen and K, popped into town to get married and stayed here with me.  It was their thirty-something anniversary, and after a very tastefully small ceremony at City Hall, we had a lovely lunch at one of my favorite Italian restaurants downtown.

And then, a slightly less romantic trip to the emergency room for Cow Queen.  After we got home from all the wedding festivities (no bouquet toss since the majority of the party was composed of widow ladies) Cow admitted as to how his leg was aching and reminded me that he had been in the hospital a few years ago with MRSA, the drug resistant staph infection, and that his doctor he’d been at pains to warn him how easy it was for it to come back.  He also revealed a big hole in his shin that he had won falling down a ladder at work last week.

He was reluctant to go to the emergency room, but a lifetime with R Man had taught me how to overcome such moronic protests.  Why is it when the words “infection” or “blood loss” or “chest pains” hang heavy in the air, I am the one who thinks how attractive the local hospitals are?  The idea that I am the responsible one in the room should make everyone a little less comfortable.

So I stuffed his protesting ass in the car and wheeled off to my favorite E.R.  A lifetime with R Man has also equipped me with a connoisseur’s knowledge of them.

It wasn’t bad, less than three hours, mostly spent discussing the wedding and the lunch and then we were back home.  So it wasn’t the ideal honeymoon.  At least he scored a bunch of oxycontin and that has to count for something.

Photographic Proof

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I am so bad about not taking pictures that when I got back from New Orleans, I simply assumed I had none.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered some aliens had apparently been snapping away on my behalf.  Herewith, Mardi Gras 2014:

Asian Magnolias exploded into bloom right after we got there, a botanical “Hey gurl, welcome back”

Two views of the patio of our charming, charming French quarter hotel

Magda and the author planning something or the other.

Magda sucking down a delicacy known as a Frozen Irish Coffee which turned out to be deadly poison and laid the poor  thing to waste for days

The coldest fucking parades I have ever stuck it out through, bolstered as I was  by my sistahs in crime,  from left, Secret Agent Fred, Sister Mary Feet in the Air, Magda, and the author, dressed as Roz Russell in The Women.  Please note the staggering amount of beads all caught in mid air.  We scorned any that had landed on the filthy sloppy ground.  Friends referred to us as “Bead Whore,” but they were just jealous.  Sad, really.
The Haul back in our room.  We had planned to hurl our largesse to the clamoring crowds below on Mardi Gras day from our balcony, but the fucking freezing cold rain eliminate that plan, so we just abandoned our riches when we left. I felt like some Russian white countess kissing off the family jewels as she scampered out of town ahead of the Bolshies.

My new house, plain, echoing, smelly (goddam hobo tenants,) and LOOOONG.  Forgetting something in one of the front rooms when you’re in the back makes you seriously consider roller-skates.

6

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So this is mrpeenee’s sixth birthday.  I have no idea how these things happen.

I originally started this whole thing only because I wanted to comment more easily on Thombeau’s long gone and most lamented Fabulon and at the time, Blogger made it easier to sign in if you had your own blog.  I still miss Fabulon.

Anyway, after that things just sort of got out of hand.  I certainly never imagined I’d make friends here, connections that would be a great comfort during those dark times around  R Man’s death.  It helped a lot.

And now I have people I’ve never physically met who have opinions about my sex life and decorating and cat (appropriately, I’m typing this without my right thumb because of a big ol’ gash on it from Saki. I swear I am sending him back to Cat Jail.)  And commenters.  I love comments.

And muscle pussy. 

In six years, I have outlasted that pissy queen who used to just post comments so he (or she) could deride my grammar.  I would like to point out Diane von Austinburg is a professional editor and if she can suck up my fondness for gerunds and erratic punctuation, I think everybody else should too.

I have stuck it out through the creepy infatuation of my stalker who used to post coyly and too-affectionate notes and tried to pick comment fights with bloggers I actually admired like Mitzi and Mean Dirty Pirate.  Of all the nerve! I actually turned to MJ from Infomaniac about him (which should tell you how unnerved by him I was) and her advice to ignore him and he would eventually go away was quite right.

Lots of muscle pussy.

We have all lasted long enough for the return of Cafe Muscato, which is most appreciated.

Also, through the magic of bloglandia, I have been able to dragoon Ask the Cool Cookie into helping with Secret Agent Fred’s house in Baltimore and a big thank you to him for that.

Blogs.  They’re handier than you might think.

Lots and lots of Muscle Pussy

Picture It

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Ask the Cool Cookie comments in our photo blathering post below “… what am I contract working on at this moment? A professional photo organizer. At least I get paid to do it.”  I say Right On, Girl, but am astonished at the same time.  It’s difficult enough slogging through all my own photographic proof of shenanigans long gone, and I know, in large part, who the shenaniganners are.  I can’t imagine how you could deal with a stack of strangers mugging at the camera.

For instance, in digging through a tasteful box of loose prints, I wind up brooding, “I know that’s Diane, but what’s with the guy wearing a pig on his head?”  What happens when Cookie runs across the equivalent of this porcine portrait?  How many can you file under “Miscellaneous?”  Plenty, I suppose.

Courageously enough, I am making room by throwing away some.  Editing, editing, always editing.  Photos of somebody’s dog, studio portraits of in-laws who always irritated me, school pictures of tiny tykes who I would be unable to pick out of lineup now (and that seems like a fate that could certainly be awaiting some of them.)  Somehow it seems radically daring to toss them, but honestly, I have thousands of others that I’m actually interested in, why hang on to the flotsam?

Speaking of Shenanigans, here’s mrpeenee modeling the latest in endangered polyester, courtesy of a friend who has drifted off, the victim of time and tides.  How I wish I could say differently about the coat, but she took it with her.  Rats.

And if I were fortunate enough to have the original of this, would I ever toss it?  Certainly not.  As Diana Vreeland once said “I miss fringe.”

Porn Friends Gone By

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I wanted to knock this post out before I forgot about it, my teensy tiny attention being what it is and how I have to use it to focus on quantum physics and yarn and what I’m going to have for lunch.

Anyway, I’ve been very struck by a picture blog I stumbled on recently called brutoseros which is an absolute archive of gay porn people so very thorough it might be verging on OCD.  Instead of a few token examples of each performer, whoever is putting this together posts a comprehensive survey of their work.  You want to see what Chris Rockway looked like before and after his unfortunate haircut? This is the resource for you.

One has to applaud such dedication.

Also,  a few days ago, the post featured the only pornster I actually know, this devastatingly humpy Swiss guy who worked under the nom de smut of Alain Gerard, which is pretty close to his real name.

When R man and I moved out here, he reunited with his old friend Richard, a slightly disgraced and semi-defrocked priest.  Alain (who hadn’t gotten into showbiz at that point) was Richard’s friend and so would show up at parties to distract those of us given to drooling over muscular blondes.   Pretty much everybody there, in other words.

A couple of amusing dinners were enlivened by Alain and some straight (straight-ish) guy and what they seemed to think was their discreet flirting.  R Man and I were amused, anyway, the guy’s wife didn’t seem to find it too funny, but then she spent most of the evenings drunk and crying in the bathroom.

Alain was determinedly oblivious to the effect he had on me and my pants, possibly because he was accustomed to tongue-lolling adoration and possibly because he was distracted by trying to snag R Man.

That happened a lot; living with R Man, I had long since become accustomed to cute guys pushing me aside so they could try to climb up on the R Man Ride.  Let’s compare and contrast, shall we?

R Man
the author

Let me point out, before this turns into an absolute pity party, I got plenty, plenty of mens and the ones sniffing around for me were not looking for R Man so being drastically different from each other worked for us.  I don’t know how these gay couples that are essentially each other’s clones divvy up who gets what.  Not my problem.

Eventually Alain drifted off to L.A. and the world of feelthy peectures.  And now that I think of it, Richard left the church and wound up in Seattle where he started his own porn company, called something like ooodaddy.com where he worked in front of the camera as well, so I guess I know two pornsters.

Yay peenee.

Porn Drinks

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Two things: thing 1) everyone commenting on my post earlier about my friend The Fashion Sensation’s determination to screw up her life agreed that people sliding headfirst down the Whoops Path are going to go on regardless of advice and the best thing one can do is to be supportive and prepared to help pick up  the pieces.  Got it.  Mainly because I was already pretty much convinced of that.  As I told the Sensation this afternoon “I’ll support you in whatever bad decision you make.”  What more can a girl ask for?

Thing 2) the consensus was unanimous for Santiago, so here he is again, looking all insouciant and stuff.

After lunch we wound up at the porn bar.  That’s not its name, but since I don’t know what that is, let’s stick with “the porn bar.”  The outstanding local porn company Kink.com  (their mission statement:  “We demystify and celebrate alternative sexualities by providing the most authentic kinky experiences.”  Well, duh.) which purchased and sort of renovated the enormous San Francisco Armoury as their studio headquarters and shooting site, also bought a shabby little bar across the street and has turned it into the sweetest and most stylish watering hole I’ve been to.  (Ed. note: subsequent research reveals its name is The Armoury Club.)If you plan on hanging out with a friend intent on messing up her life, I can’t recommend highly enough.

Dark, pretty, alabaster bar, and tasty, tasty drinks.

I like Kink’s work a lot.  Their sites include Butt Machine Boys, Divine Bitches, TS Pussy Hunters, Public Disgrace, and many others.  My fave is Bound Gods which gave us the classic Creepy Janitor series.  When the company bought the Armoury, which had been sitting mouldering away for decades, there was the expected outcry from the small minded sector of the public who took exception to movies about firm bodied young men being whipped while duct taped to a toilet.  Well, get you, that’s what I say.  Welcome to the sixties, mama.

Another day at work, right?