Category Archives: friends

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?

Vote Now

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Let’s all just take a moment to admire today’s houseboy before mrpeenee wanders off into another of my long-winded stories, shall we?

There, isn’t that better?  Now for a story with wind of great length:

We are in a quandary.  Our dear friend The Fashion Sensation has had Parkinson’s disease for several years; her condition has worsened dramatically over the last two years.  That would, of course, be enough to cause grave distress among her friends.  The quandary arises because of her wholehearted embrace of a string of what I think are crazyass bad decisions, to wit, quit her big shot, career defining Important Job, divorce her odd, but charming husband, and move off to a farm outside Toronto to live with some guy she met online last spring and with whom she has been conducting a torrid Skype-based affair.

And you wonder why my stories are long-winded.

I tried addressing my concerns with her, using small, firm words, particularly the one that living in Toronto would expose her to snow. But, since she grew up in some godforsaken state abutting Canadia richly supplied in frozen tundra, she apparently does not share my deep seated and wholly sensible suspicion of the stuff.

I would have expanded my objections to include the fact she has been considering this since April, but waited to spring on her unsuspecting hubby until two days before they were supposed to leave on a trip to Berlin (in January?) when he was sick in bed the fact that she has filed for divorce.  Uh, honey?  So making it hard for me to stay on your side.

Plus, I’m constantly distracted by her attempts to expand on the details of how Skype Love works between man and woman.  Why do straight women think gay men need tutorials?  I know how the plumbing operates; the rest does not need my attention.  Do I share the finer points of felching?  No.

So anyway, in a totally cowardly way, I have been avoiding conversations, even emails because I feel like if I really am convinced this is the Big Mess Express, I should have intervened and done so before now.  And tonight when she wrote to say today was her birthday and could we go out for brunch this weekend did not help the “I am Such a Bad Friend/Worm/Dog” sensation.

In my defense, let me remind the court that my good pal Brian once took me aside to warn me the guy over whom I was making a fool of myself didn’t love me, would never love me, and that I should just move on.  You can see where this is going, right?  Yes, the guy was R Man and by ignoring Brian’s advice, I opened myself to thirty years of wedded bliss.  I have ever since then been reluctant to hand out  advice.

Maybe this is The Fashion Sensation’s big, last chance at happiness.  What do I know?

I’ll tell you what I know.  The Canadian told her he wanted to take care of her.  Not was willing to.  Wanted to.  I took care of R Man at the end and it was awful, heart-breaking, exhausting work.  I’m glad I did it, for my sake as well as R’s, but to say it’s something you want?  Ick.  Plus he writes her long letters with darling water colours and drawings and pressed leaves and, I don’t know, glitter rainbows.  Probably.  Behavior I expect more from a teenage gay boy.  Not some guy I’m interested in handing over an ailing old friend.

I was going to throw this open to a vote, should I or shouldn’t I hurl myself into the breach with a loud “Get a grip honey,”  But really it’s too late.  I’ll just go to brunch and see what happens.

Instead, we can vote on which houseboy you prefer, Brock (above) or Santiago (below).

The Return of peenee

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Yes, I’m back, thank you.  Secret Agent Fred and I had a lovely time in New Orleans, although I seem to remember more of it than Fred does.  Poor dear was just the teensiest bit too enthusiastic in celebrating the New Orleans sport of drinking oneself blind.

We also got to hang out with that bloggers’ blogger, Jason, from Night is Half Gone and he and I had a very amusing afternoon eating beignets (there are some New Orleans cliches you simply have to embrace) and talking blogger talk, which essentially meant we were gossiping about you, our dear, dear readers.  My dears, the things Jason said about you.  Of course, I tried to defend you, but he was not to be denied.  For a fairly reasonable fee, I will forward you the filth he poured out about you.  Please allow sufficient time for me to make it up.

So we saw many cute boys, some of whom seem to be lost in Fred’s bourbon fueled mists, but none of whom were this cute.

Now that I’m back, I’ve turned my attention once again to the L.A. Times’ crossword puzzle which today included the clue:

“Rock from a Sock”

I was eventually able to chisel out the answer as being:

“See Stars” or possibly “Sees Tars”

Am I missing something?  I mean, I want my puzzles to be challenging, but including simple gibberish seems to be cheating.  Does this make sense to anybody?

Belated

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Oh no. Oh nononono.  Is it to late to go back in time to October 4 in order to wish our old friend Ralph Happy Birthday.   Sources claim he’s 70, but that’s in Gay Years.  The old dear is charming and funny and I hate to consider what he must think about me standing him up.  My most sincere regrets and here, have a houseboy on me.

Town and Country

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Secret Agent Fred and I just got back from a short trip to our friends Mark and Gaye up in Napa.  Napa was a sleepy farming burg which transformed, much like Aspen and the Hamptons, into a place where really rich people can go and complain to each other.  Nevertheless, it’s a lovely place and Mark and Gaye have a nice plain house there with a lavish vegetable garden.

The Wine Country.  This is certainly not Mark and Gaye’s  place.  It’s a snotty champagne winery that was rude to Fred so we left.

We hung out with chickens

And goats.

We ate such fabulous food, tomatoes and corn and basil and tarragon and lots and lots of squash all rushed from the garden to the kitchen where I was slinging serious hash.

As usual in the country, we found many dead things, like this ferret.  Fred’s the one on the left.

We picked tons of blackberries, just like when I was a sullen little white trash child in the wilds of Texas.

The garden was not just massively productive, but really pretty as well.  Because Mark likes to build things, every meal included a discussion about where to eat it, on the screened porch, on the patio, on the pergola, on the floating deck, on the terrace, yaddahyaddahyaddah.  This is one of the arbors.  The man needs to calm down.

But he very sweetly caught a bunch of little mosquito fish form their pond for the lily pond I’m  building.  He was srt of impressed until I admitted the “pond” is pretty much an oversized garbage can I bought and am filling up with water and lilies.  And mosquito fish, imported from Napa.

Normally I’m tepid about going to people’s “country place.”  I feel like if you’re sucker enough to get on the hook for a second house, I don’t know why I should be commandeered to come amuse you, but everyone I know who has one is always agitating for visitors to come justify the joint.  Still, I’m glad we went since it was a good time and Mark and Gaye are charming and we scored enough produce from their gardens to keep a small religious cult going for a couple of weeks.  What, exactly, Saki and I are supposed to do with it all is beyond me.

Old Dear, Part Two

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Darlings, I’m working on my mrpeenee’s Fifth Anniversary Gala Dragaplooza: Cinco or Swim, but first just a quick note about how terribly amusing it was to have my dear old sistah in the house.  We were immensely cultured, hitting three museums: the Man Ray/Lee Miler show (so-so, actually bordering on dull,) the Jean Paul Gaultier show (tremendously fabulous) and the Cindy Sherman retrospective (even more tremendously fabulous.)  We also embraced our true low brows by thrashing a number of thrift stores.  I am proudly sitting in a only-slightly-rickety desk chair we snagged for $7.40. While at a rather upscale venue called, simply, Stuff, I was sucked into the groove of the sound system’s Aretha Franklin Rock Steady.  I spun around from a particularly hip shakin’ bit and came face to face with the owner who seemed sort of stunned, as people so often are when exposed to my dancing.  And did that faze Magda?  No it did not.

Truly, it was a wonderful time and I fully expect my enhanced, exaggerated Southern accent to calm back down soon, now that the old dear isn’t around to egg it on.

Bless her.

The Old Dears

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I happen to know the bodice on that titian haired temptress  is relying heavily on staples.

Sweeties, mrpeenee will be distracted over the next few days as I pay host to our dearest, oldest friend, Rich, aka Rikee, aka the Felonious Tart, aka Magda visiting from New Orleans.  We have been friends so long, I don’t even remember why I refer to him as Magda.   I believe it has something to do with tambourines, but then so many things do, don’t they?

One long ago Mardi Gras, he watched over me while I was so loaded I was unable to do anything except lie on the floor of my bathroom, tripping, tripping, tripping.  At least, he did until he went out for a drink, but he came back.  And isn’t that the mark of a true friend?

We always used to make jokes to each other about winding up being old ladies together and now, here we are. My, my, my.  Could be worse.  Could be dead.

Sunday Plans

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A dear friend is going through a rough time, another and I haven’t connected in far too long, and Super Agent Fred is always up for a good time, so the obvious answer is Sunday Brunch and then possibly shopping at Gump’s.  Gay?  Why do you ask?

We’re headed off for a swank little boite in an odd part of downtown.  Since making the reservation on Tuesday, they have called me twice and sent me two emails less about confirming our party and more like badgering me.   I suspect that were we to not turn up they would track us down with bloodhounds.  Still, it sounds like a sweet  place and one of the drinks they feature on their brunch menu is the Mary Pickford: white rum, pineapple gum, lime, grenadine and maraska.  I have no idea what maraska might be and I’m fervently hoping “pineapple gum” is a typo, but I’m planning on swilling it down and will report later, if the vicodin holds out.  I figure it it’s good enough for America’s Sweetheart to knock back, how bad can it be?

Also, speaking of The Gay Life, here:

Crexcent City Craziness

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Our dear friends Kevin and Steve arrive today for a visit from New Orleans. The nominal reason is a wedding of Steve’s nephew, I think they really are just trying to escape the miserable heat I hear is suffocating the South. Right on I say, I just don’t understand why they waited so long.
We’ve been friends for quite a while, I believe we met shortly after time was invented. Steve is a landscape architect, Kevin makes Sak’s pretty. Drugs and drag have been involved, yes, it’s true.

Cow Queen, getting all belovelified for some long gone Southern Decadence bacchanal.
It’s possible I am the only friend they have who does not pronounce his name “Kebbin.” That’s because I am a Lady, I do Lady things. Certainly, I am the only one who calls Steve “Cow Queen.” The cause of the nickname is lost to the mists of time. I simply appreciate that he puts up with it, the old darling.
They’ve visited out here often enough over the years, that I have no plans for things to entertain them. I suppose we will just hang out, savoring the fog and cool temps. Could anything be sweeter?

Back in the Saddle

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OK, I’m just going to dive in and pretend like I haven’t been ignoring my blog for two weeks because no one is interested in to listening bloggers explain how they are just too darn busy to keep up. Life too much for you? What are you, a combination astronaut/brain surgeon? If you’re that important why do you have a blog? Obviously, I’m just a lazy pig.
My dear friend Rich from New Orleans (aka Magda) was in town the last week of July which was terribly amusing and good for me. We did pretty much nothing and it was fabulous to be reminded how solid friends we are, and why. We found the perfect little table for my front hall in a consignment store for $180 and when they wouldn’t come down to $150, I walked out. Magda patiently encouraged me to rethink the situation and the values inherent in it. Actually, what he said was “Queen. Are you going to pass up that table for thirty bucks? Shut up and get back in there.” I am immensely glad I did so and publicly thank Magda for his sensible advice.

I spent the entire day yesterday watching a Hoarders marathon on some cable channel’s whose motto should be “We Waste Your Time for You.” I’d never been able to stick out more than the first 60 seconds of these monuments to civilization because I always thought I was too delicate to watch more than that much of the filth festivals. Turns out I’m tougher than I thought; how comforting.
Hoarders is an excuseless revel in the fortunes of troubled individuals who cannot bring themselves to let go of a single piece of the flotsam and jetsam in their lives. These sad, sad creatures (or, as I like to think of them, “freakydirtycreepylosers”) exist in a bubble of denial. Look, if moving through your home requires you to climb over a moraine of empty gatorade bottles and old pizza boxes and if you cannot access your toilet for the vast collection of stuffed poodles you have dragged home from the thrift stores, do you really think all systems are go in your sweet little life? These shows are just the latest in a series of entertainment monuments (Design Star is another) that cause me to shriek at the television. This alarms Saki and makes me wonder if maybe the participants are any worse off than I am, carrying on a one-way conversation with household appliances.
I am also finishing up a 10 volume series of science fiction novels by Lois McMaster Bujold that center on a terribly amusing character named Miles Vorkosigan. If you like sci fi, you should give them a try. The conceit of a one character in this many settings allowed Bujold to study fantasy writing through the lens of different genres like hard-boiled detective noir, and regency romance, and whodunits. Thumbs up.
Also, houseboy booty: