Another Year Older

Oops, oops, I have once again forgotten my own anniversary. July the something (I’m too lazy to look it up) 2007 was my blog’s first post, so yay for me. Among bloggers, 14 is a ripe old age, an antique, in fact. When I first started airing my dirty laundry, there was quite a little gang of fellow bloggers to keep me company. Their number has withered away, it’s true, but I still remember them fondly. Perverts, most of them, but amusing perverts.

My blog’s musty old age is not a testament to any particular stick-to-itness on my part. All of my storytelling tends to wander quite a bit (maybe you noticed? Shut up.) and I think I started some damn story all those years ago and have just never finished.

So let’s raise a toast to mrpeenee, god love him. Here’s to never getting to the point.

If I were to get anniversary presents (it’s not too late,) I would hope this might serve as an inspiration.

Big, hard, and thoughtful. What could be better?

“I’m workin on a man/with blonde hair and a tan,” Dr. Frank N. Furter.

I’ve seen that look before. It’s always trouble.

Fashion Trends

My new raincoat was delivered yesterday and in a stroke of serendipitous timing, it rained all day today so I could take it out for a test drive.

It was an unqualified success.  Cozy warm, it kept me completely dry with none of those annoying seam leaks, and best of all, the hood fits.  Since I have long (some would say swanlike, but not me of course) neck, hoods are always problematic.  I bought rain gear last summer to be prepared when the rains finally came only to discover when they did that the coat’s hood was way too shallow leaving my face and glasses out in the rain.

I understand a dark (I thought it was black, but the picture makes me assume that it’s really navy.  That is mrpeenee’s fashion sense in one sentence) unremarkable parka would not rate as fashion for most people, but since all the rest of my clothing purchases in the last decade have been identical replacements for whatever tee shirt wears out, this was a pretty extraordinary event.

Because I bought the first one so long ago, I don’t remember what made me pick it originally.  Probably it was the first thing listed on the Land’s End web site that day.  As I mentioned, it fit oddly, with sleeves long enough, but the tail too short to cover my butt and the stupid hood perched on the back of my head.  Both coats though came loaded down with all sorts of velcro and zippers and odd pockets that I have no idea what to do with.  It seems sort over engineered for San Francisco’s undemanding weather.  Part of the description for the new one promised something about the pockets that would keep the snow out.  What?  Perhaps my readers more familiar with snow can explain why that’s a thing.  Does snow sneak into your pockets?  I wouldn’t put it past it; I’m very suspicous of snow.

In other news:  naked guys far away from cold gray weather

That’s called a “tan.”  Perhaps you have forgotten about them.

keeping warm is important during these trying times.

Sunny, warm, tropicale.  Even in California it calls to me.

 

Bal Masque

One of the odd aspects of all this smoke in the air here is the proliferation of masks.  Days ago, the state health department advised that the elderly and kids and sick people wear a mask that filtered out smoke.  Then they upped it to everyone should wear a mask and now they’ve just thrown in the towel and said everybody should simply stay indoors.  It’s like the start of a zombie movie.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have seen every permutation on face coverings just short of Darth Vader.  It’s gotten to the point where there are generally more people wearing one than not.  I do so hate to be left out of any fashion rage.

Man-on-the-street mask.  A really cute man on the street to boot.

I’ve also been hacking pretty impressively every time I venture out, so I gave in and decided to go buy one.  Naturally, both of the hardware stores in my terribly stylish neighborhood were sold out.  But I persisted and this afternoon I went in to my favorite one and snagged the very last one they had.

mrpeenee avec l’masque

I think it has a certain raffish charm to it.  Since I have a really skinny head, it only sort of fits and I wasn’t convinced it was doing anything until I took it off before going into the grocery and I was suddenly struck by the very strong smell of smoke from which it must have been protecting me.

So yay it works.  It also fogs up my glasses, but I’ll take breathing over seeing any day.

I am Ashamed. Sort Of.

The ever urbane Muscato from Cafe Muscato describes an afternoon swanning about Vienna and then asks what the rest of us lesser mortals did lately for amusement.  I bought a suede coat and a pair of giant blue and white porcelain vases; got trapped in a clusterfuck of traffic because of this World Series thing here for an hour and a half and then leaned out of my car window and spat on a limo that was causing a bottleneck on the only escape route out of downtown San Francisco.

Even as I let loose, I wondered who on earth I had become.  I may have launched originally from Texas, but I’ve been a Lady for years now.  Nevertheless, the limo’s passenger’s look of horror was immensely gratifying.

I may have been watching a little too much American Horror Story lately.

https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/hzFCROrvS0A&source=uds

mrpeenee, Vampire Koala

ohmygosh, you guys, it turns out I have morphed into a koala bear.  Koalas sleep more than 20 hours a day, just like me, and are adorable.  Ditto.

Random koala or mrpeenee?  You decide.

Tragically, most certainly not mrpeenee.

The only difference is that the bears get lots of fresh air, what with being relegated to the outdoors, and exercise from falling out of eucalyptus trees and I, on the other hand, refuse to leave the house.  I’m sort of a shut-in koala, existing on cinnamon rolls and chocolate milk.  THIS HAS GOT TO STOP.  Mostly because I just finished off the last of the cinnamon rolls.

Also, I’m not sure how most koalas feel about mormon boy porn, but I am still all for it.

Super Seven

What do you mean it’s August?  The hell?   How do these things happen?

It’s true I’ve been rather distracted lately by hosting guests for their own wedding and visiting New Orleans on a retail spree and competing with the cats to see who can sleep the most in one day, but that doesn’t excuse missing two important (to me, and who else counts?) anniversaries in July.

The first was Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat’s birthday, his seventh, on July 7.  Yes, 7/7/07 and now it’s number seven, so maybe this year will be lucky for him.  Having ripped up both white leather chairs in the living room, he is now turning his attention to converting the back guest room into a spare cat box, so he’s probably going to need all the luck he can get if I catch him pooping in there one more time.

And my blog, this title piece of heaven, also turned seven a few days ago, but again, I was sleeping, so, oops.  In case you wondering, here is the first post, from all those long years ago:

But who is mrpeenee?
I’m a nice guy, that’s who. I hide it successfully under a mask of brittle bitterness, but I would be happy to save orphan kittys and old ladies from burning buildings if I just weren’t so darn busy downloading porn and staring out the window. My long suffering lover, R Man, and I live in San Francisco where I work for the federal government making wildly inaccurate statements to the press and running the training program for entrepreneurs for the SBA here. I am occasionally surprised to realize how respectable I am.

I grew up in Texas, but never understood what white trash I am until I left. How was I supposed to know nice people didn’t put mayonnaise on their French fries?

I gotta go.

So seven years later and all I’ve learned is how to include photos of muscly young men.  Hmm.

6

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

Get Jiggy Wid It

I’ve been more distracted than usual lately because I stumbled on a web site that allows you to create and solve your own jigsaw puzzles.  It’s caused me to not only dig back through all my masterpieces stored on iPhoto, but to actually scan in older pictures as well.  I’ve found putting the puzzle together forces me to dwell more thoroughly on the picture than just flipping through a stack of them.  Like Georgia O’Keeffe said “to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”   I had to Google that quote, I certainly couldn’t remember it accurately.  For that matter, spelling her last name threw me.

So anyway, I’ve been “publishing” these puzzles so I could solve them (I found out later you don’t have to make them public.  Like I care) and now other people are working them.  Doesn’t that seem odd?  Like volunteering to watch other people’s vacation slides?

You know what the most popular one is?

mrpeenee and R Man walking down Dauphine Street in the French Quarter some long gone Southern Decadence.  What?  These guys have never seen a man in lady’s underwear?

And while prowling through all these vanished days with R Man is plenty poignant, there’s also lots of regret about wardrobes that have evolved into the past tense.  “Man, I loved that tee shirt” comes up frequently.

I take as a given the cause of all their demises were grease drips down the front that no laundering would ever get out.  I’m a slob.  But my jigsaw working is really improving.

To Live and Die and Have a Birthday In LA

I know some people, when celebrating their birthday with a trip, will go for a vigorous hike in the Cascades, or trek to Bhuthan to meditate with the monks.   Last week for my birthday (and sincere thanks to everybody who wished me a happy one, and all the rest of you miscreants also,) I went down to Los Angeles for a manicure.

It was well and truly the greatest manicure I’ve ever had.  The salon Secret Agent Fred and I went to had the severe white hush of a chic research lab and we each had a room all to ourselves so the technician could truly concentrate on our cuticles.

Also, tiny little fur brushes to whisk away the detritus from the emory board.  Dazzling.

Also quite charming was the always beautiful LA weather and lots of cute guys.

We were staying in a small hotel I quite like and which pretends to have a bar.  You sit down at a table, a server appears eventually, takes your order and then disappears.   One supposes they’re mixing drinks back in the laundry room.  I ordered a Lemon Drop because I am a Lady, I do Lady Things and it was served as a martini glass filled with Citron vodka.  That was it, no mixer, nothing, just liquor.  Turned out to go with my vicodin perfectly well.

And really great Mexican food, my favorite cuisine.  Why San Francisco is so lacking in it is a constant source of pain to me.

My favorite coffee place in the universe is a small San Francisco chain called Peet’s.  I was so glad to find one near our hotel and even more delighted to see they have valet parking.  It’s L.A. baby.

Thanks again to everyone for your birthday wishes, all of which came true.  It was a plenty Happy one.

This Just In:

mrpeenee is just the teensiest bit drunk.  We went out tonight with friends to see the one man show of Leslie Jordan, who is, as a side note, like mrpeenee also a 57 year old big sissy from the South, so a lot of his stories resonated, except for the ones about doing speed fueled drag as a teenager.   Still, it was pretty amusing.

The show required a two-drink-minimum, so I had a couple of Cosmos, because I am a Lady, and they were tasty, tasty, tasty, but STRONG.  So I’m a little drunk.

Back in the day, mrpeeenee was a Big Mess.  A Big Drunk Mess.  As loaded as I am at this moment was merely a brief stop on the Big Drunk Mess Line; it was the I Think I’ll Have Another Pitcher of Margaritas stop.  So very much not happy times.  Let me just say how very glad I am to no longer be on that sloppy train.  Plus typing is hard when ones fingers seem slightly unconnected.

Instead, muscle pussy: