Category Archives: holidays

Obscure Presidents and the More Obvious


The always illuminating blog Cafe Muscato has a charming President Day celebratory theme. Which was handy since I had no idea today was President’s Day. Since retiring, keeping track of holidays is sort of moot. If you don’t work, everyday’s a holiday! Besides Muscato is located in Washington, where the day is more of big deal than anywhere else. I’m sure most Americans know it mainly as the Mattress Sale holiday and how did that wind up together anyway?

The “tune” included in Muscato’s post reminded me how littered with blanks my ability to name presidents is.  I’m OK for about the first five. OK, four. but after that, things sort of dribble out. I know there were two Adams, two Roosevelts and two Bushes (which, let’s face it. were two too many) and Millard Fillmore. San Francisco has an overabundance of streets named after mediocre presidents, including Fillmore, and the Fillmore, famous nightclub shrine of 60s Rock ‘n Roll, takes its name simply from its location, so that’s how Millard Fillmore is related to the Jefferson Airplane.

More interesting than presidents who ran on the Know Nothing Party (and thank you for THAT trend) let us turn instead to over-photoshopped beauties, a trend I mostly run across when shopping around for illustrations for this blog.

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Do we think this guy looks like this in real life? Is it possible some creature resembling this walks into Starbucks and orders lattes? How could chaos not break out? There’s that Uncanny Valley thing, which wikipedia explains better than I do, to wit:

The concept of the uncanny valley suggests that humanoid objects which appear almost, but not exactly, like real human beings elicit uncanny, or strangely familiar, feelings of eeriness and revulsion in observers.


Revulsion may not be the feeling this youth stirs, but he doesn’t exactly look human either. I mean, I wouldn’t mind a few hours in a romantic setting with him, but still, that utter perfection looks like it owes more to Mattel than to good genes.

Also part of the photoshopping madness we have the “Just keep hitting the enlarge button”


Nobody loves a great big whopper better than I, but there comes a point when we’re back in the Uncanny part of town. I’m OK with a “touchup” let’s say, something that’s in the way of wishful thinking.  But honey this, this reaches structurally impossible.

Thank God That’s Over


That’s what Mary said after she finally popped the biscuit out of the oven.  Little did she know.

I had a lovely christmas, thanks.   Secret Agent Fred was over at his abusive boyfriend’s place (which is actually Fred’s place, but when the boyfriend becomes too abusive, Fred comes over here to hide.  Life is so complicated.)  So it was just me and Saki and some banana pudding and some left over home made chicken pot pie (beyond delicious) and some fudge, also home made, and some oxycontin.   Saki would stand on my chest screaming that it was time to feed him, I would stumble downstairs, scrape out the cat food, eat a piece of fudge and fall back in bed.  Fabulous.

As is this mid-century Norman Rockwell knockoff.


You know those two gentlemen on the end of the couch are planning sodomy once they’ve fed their wives enough Manhattans, those teens by the clock are tripping like a thousand screamin monkeys and think they’re talking to Chrissie Hynde and the old farts in the kitchen are chained to the stove after last years’ “incident.”  Happy Holidays bitches.

Speaking of planning sodomy, here:



No Bahs, No Humbugs


As i mentioned recently, I have decided to make peace with Christmas decorations.  Afterall, no matter how I spit and fume, they are not going anywhere, they are (sort of ) attractive, and all too soon tax season will be upon us; save your venom for then.

In that vein, I decided to photograph the prim and terribly quiet neighborhood I live next to (their home owners association will not accept our street.  How mortifying.) and which I drive through to the grocery store.  When I say they are prim and quiet to the point of being prissy, I mean that for the balance of the year.  Come Yuletide, these motherfucker start slinging gaudy, vulgar decorations around like a dock whore on a crack vacation.

My apologies for the crappy  quality of the photos, it’s the best my phone can do at night on the way home from the grocery with me just leaning out of the window.


The classic California Xmas: a palm tree wrapped in lights.


Or just some random bush


I am actually old enough to remember when they introduced simple white lights as an alternative to all the cheery colorful madness.  They seemed SO minimalistic and tasteful.  Now  I think they’re just dull.  Step it up bitches or step off.


The “Why Bother?”


And the grand finale, “The Blockbuster.”  I only regret I couldn’t capture the tinkling carole music that I assume grinds aloong nonstop and which, were I their neighbor, would drive me to attck it with a pick axe.

Please note, none of these trashy hoes are on MY street.  I look out my window and all I can see are those awful compact fluorescent lightbulbs lighting front porches waaiting for UPS men to draw near.

So anyway, joyeux Noel, bitches.  My plan for christmas? Extra oxycodone and consciousness only when Saki absolutely demands it for me to feed him.

My security guard will be enforcing this.




Perhaps you heard?  Sunday, April 20 was both Easter (as I like to point out, a Jewish fairy tale about zombies celebrated with symbolically ritualized cannibalism.  Fabulous) and also the highly unofficial holiday of 420, which for reasons no one knows celebrates marijuana.

I don’t really care one way or the other about either of them, in fact, I had forgotten this was Easter until Friday when I was trying to make reservations for brunch.  My biggest complaint on Sunday was that the confluence of both meant that every idiot in town whose driving was impaired either by religious fervor or dope, or both, was in my way.  There is an intersection where three streets cross and some buffoon attempting a left turn had some crisis of confidence and just gave up, sitting in the middle, blocking the rest of us.  Maybe it was an art piece, there’s lots of those around here.

On the brighter side, the brunch was just charming and included an ice cream cone for dessert and I found a great couch for the New Orleans house.

Also blooming right now is my beautiful, beautiful cereus, so yay for spring and all that.

Choo choo

Somehow, I don’t imagine this is our conductor.

Secret Agent Fred and I are spending Christmas day taking the train down the coast to Los Angeles.  It’s supposed to be a really spectacular trip and I like riding on trains,

but right now, four hours before we’re supposed to leave, Fred and I are both sort of loaded (in Fred’s case, you can delete the “sort of” part.  Plowed would be a better description.)  Still, how hard can it be to get on a train?


We’ll be back soonish, I’ll tell you all about it.

More Thanks. Lotsa Thanks.


Oh, hay.  Do I still have a blog?  Waddya know?

Do you remember Thanksgiving?  A couple of weeks ago?  Some friends and I went down to Big Sur to spend the Feast of Fat in this place that was astonishingly sumptuous.

This is the view from the backyard.

To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, “I find it harder and harder every day to live up to Northern California’s excessive prettiness.”  Sometimes it’s sort of oppressive, much like what I assume dating this guy might be like.

I made turkey and cornbread dressing and gravy, all of which was totally delicious, if I say so myself, and our friend J made pulled pork for sammiches, which was even more tasty and the place even had a dance floor where mrpeenee demonstrated the moves that made him the terror of bars throughout the 80s

and there was a giant soaking jacuzzi tub for after dancing.  All fabulous.  And that’s when the cocaine came out.

Oh my little schnitzels, I haven’t done any coke since Ronald Reagan was president, but it turns out I can still snorfle it up like a Dyson.  My co-miscreants, all of whom are considerably younger than me and were not around for the Liza Minnelli years were most impressed.  Apparently they had fallen for my respectable facade all these years.

Equally impressive to them was at the very end, when there was only smallish pile left and someone (NOT ME) spilled water on it.  I had only the briefest pause before I announced “I’m licking that up.”  Who wants to waste cocaine?  It was one of those decisions you make that even as you’re processing it, you think “Probably not the best idea,” but that doesn’t stop you.  And besides the feeling returned to my tongue by the next morning.  Pretty much.

A lovely Thanksgiving.

Everything counts in large amounts.

Here Comes Peter


So I spent all day today convinced it was Easter Sunday.  The very nice hostess at the Burritt Room, where we had a fabulous early dinner, confirmed that I was a week early.  On the up side, she convinced us to come back next Sunday (which claims to actually be the day) for brunch.  Bottomless mimosas to celebrate the horrific torture and murder of a Jewish prophet and his sort-of-scary zombie path to holiness!  All right!

What makes this annoying (aside from the possibility I have lost what little mind I ever had) is the fact that I am one of the very few people who can rattle off how the date Easter falls on is determined.  The very same church which refused my ultra fabulous campaign for ultra fabulous popester created a bizarre formula for Easter while they were struggling for the hearts and minds of heathens.  Since the heathens were reluctant to give up their holidays, the church just absorbed them and turned them into ecumenical holy days or feasts.  Thus Easter is a moveable feast because it changes each year.

Calculating the date has its own name, “Computus” and here’s how it works:  Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon following the Spring Equinox.  There was probably something about sacrificing a goat when it was still heathen property, but that didn’t make it past the Jewish Passover.  The name “Easter” comes from a pre-christian goddess names Oestrus, which also lent itself to the biology term estrus for when Ladies can make babies out of their eggs.

Paganism: the church is stuffed with it.

I can also name all seven dwarves by memory.

Give It Up


And may the peace of the Lenten season be with you.  You did know today, Ash Wednesday, is the start of Lent, right?  Also, you knew that people who say “Happy Lent” like “Merry Christmas” are just misguided morons who are missing the whole point, right?

And we all are planning on what to give up for Lent as part of our penance, penance as miserable sinners who have left undone what we ought to have done, right?  Personally, each Easter, I know the quiet satisfaction of having stuck with my vows of having done strictly without whatever it is I have sworn off.  How do I exhibit such strength of will?  I always choose to give up things I hate, that’s how.  That way, as I’m tucking into my chocolate bunnies and everyone around me feels guilty about failing to stick with their promise to stop drinking, I can think “Whew, I am SO glad I didn’t go BASE jumping, just like I said I wouldn’t.”

For Lent 2013, I swear to pass on:

Indian food
Macadamia nuts
lesbian porn
Sylvester Stallone
Vitamin water
Standing around nude with the naked guys at Naked Guy Park

I am certainly NOT giving up the fleshly pleasures.

We Give Thanks for So Many Things


In case you missed it, Thursday was Thanksgiving.


Let’s just move on, but not before offering up sincere and deep thanks to Diane von Austinburg (who blew in town just for the cooking) and Secret Agent Fred, both of whom were great help.

In more up-to-the-moment news, we are sharing in the general slavering over tonight’s trainwreck that is the Liz and Dick movie starring Lindsay Lohan.  A great many reports confirm that it seems destined to challenge Plan 9 from Outer Space‘s long held title as the worst movie ever made.  The New York Time’s review actually said that it wasn’t “terrible enough.”  That’s right, they were complaining it was insufficiently crappy.  Wow.  That’s just greedy.  Anyway, come 9:00 PM West Coast time, count on the inhabitants of Chez Peenee to be in our jim jams, thrilling to this epic.

Lifesaving bitches at attention in case the Virginia Woolfe scenes overcome mrpeenee.