Category Archives: mrpeenee

Well, That’s Five Years We’ll Never Get Back


I know I was supposed to be putting up a post all about my blog birthday (Happy Five to me, bitches!) but I’ve been distracted by eating nectarines, cause it’s July and you need to roll with them while you got ‘em, am I right?  But finally the one I had this afternoon delivered the tender and tart deliciousness of a door knob, so I realized it’s time to move on.

So with that, let’s raise the curtain on

mrpeenee’s Fifth Anniversary Dragapalooza: Cinco or Swim!

Star of stars, mrpeenee will be hosting as that darling of the oppressed 99.9%, Pepper Spray.  I will, of course, be performing my signature number Police on My Back.  I know I probably shouldn’t be setting the bar so high at my own party, but with talent like mine, what can I do?

Here’s a publicity still from latest picture, Gidget Occupies Malibu.  Maybe hasn’t opened in  whatever unimportant cow town you’re reading this in, but when you get the chance to buy it (not rent or pirate, you cheap bitch) I’m sure you’ll be dazzled by my work.

Our cast this evening is all the vixens and viragos of mrpeenee’s frequent commentors and what a mixed bag (so to speak) those lazy cows are:

Clutter from the Gutter’s own Mitzi offers up (“with a shy giggle that sounds like a cascade of silver bells my entry for your jubilee, and long may you reign!”)

 Petula Plenty was  just a common prostitute in Piccadilly, London, before making it big as a Shirley Bassey impersonator. The streets weren’t paying enough, and the draft up her skirt brought her out in a terrible rash, and the anitbiotics weren’t working, so in 1995 she got up on the stage at The Vauxhall Tavern in London, dressed as a magician’s moll and sang her little heart out. The audience loved her. 

The rest, as they say, is history. Her incredible debut album ‘Tits On Fire’  won her four Brits and countless other awards, she even knocked Madonna off the number 1 spot in several countries world wide.

Songs on the album include: Simply The Breast –  by Tina Turner;  Knocker Three Times – by Dawn;  Mammary Mia – By Abba;  Radio Bra Bra – by Queen;  Always On My Tits – by Elvis plus many many more.

Petula Plenty facts: Chris Rea couldn’t afford the real Shirley Bassey for his 1996 film soundtrack La Passione so he used Petula Plenty instead.
Affectionately known as  ‘Pet’ gay men worship her, believing her to have supernatural powers.

Mitzi gets her own dressing room, because she is a star and not because everyone else is afraid of what may be hiding in her bag.  Or not only.

Designing Wally reveals

My drag name: Kit Encaboodle

My song for you:  Missing Persons- I Like boys:

xoxox, Gary

PSsst!  Boys like me, too….

What, you mean boys as opposed to possums?  Darling Wally can be so obscure sometimes, you know?

Blogging Sinsation Jason, from Night is Half Gone, wants us to know

 here’s my inner temptress…well, one of them: Miss Vaseline McCooter

I’m planning to bring a positive, affirming message to this contest, unlike these other trifling bitches. 

And of course, I’ll be singing Shirley Brown’s classic Woman to Woman 

Because cooterhood is powerful. And so is that mop Jason is working.

NormaDesmond arrives late, as is appropriate for a Big Star (also cause the bitch didn’t send anything in, so I made this up for her.  As I told the old thing “NORMA FUCKING DESMOND needs to be in this show.”  Anyone disagree?  Shut up and sit back down.)

Norma will be playing Gloria Swanson playing Norma playing a washed up silent star playing that paragon of glamour and crazy: Norma Desmond.  I think I got lost somewhere in there, but so did she and at least I’m not burying a monkey in the back yard.  Norma considered and discarded all the sad, sad songs from that big mess Sunset Boulevard, the Musical and instead will be selling her famous one-woman duet – Crazy by Patsy Cline, and Crazy by Gnarls Barkley, and Crazy by Seal after which mrpeenee will shoot her with a tranquilizer dart gun.  It’s a big number.

Another late entry is our most beloved Muscato, rising from her hospital bed to assay her alter ego, legendary Finnish diva Mme. Watta-Setta Nakkers, with her internationally acclaimed rendition of the beloved “Flower Duet” from Lakmé, in which she plays the musical saw for the mezzo line. 
As an encore, she and her trusty metal pal tackle “Nowadays” from Chicago (her tap break will take your breath away. Literally). 

So good of dear Muscaato to bring a bit of elegance to this tawdry evening.  She has such tone, don’t you think?

Mistress Borghese flies in with

Now honey, rest assure, us bitches will come through, it is just tough to get the damn lead out!!!! Now for my photo selection, I’ll use my own drag name the Mistress Borghese, and my own drag persona. As I tend to be quite the temptress, in one of my favorite impresontations of the fabulous Carmen Miranda. For my number I’ll do a lively rendition of the stunning and lavish performance to  CHICA CHICA BOOM CHIC!  I just hope I can keep all my orbs from falling out this time! 

I’m sure all of us are relieved to read that the dear Mistress is the sumptuous fruit bowl and not the undead sea hag lurking in the corner.  One just never knows. 

Jon (aka Dolores Delargo Towers) provides us with an interpretive art piece of his dragness

for a better look:

He continues: A “drag name” I came up with many moons ago – I would have to be Pyroclastic Flo!

And the song? Samy K feat. Diva Avari – Fucking Bitch, of course

 (ed. note: Darlings, you need to go see this.  it’s summin.)

I look forward to the show!!

How sweet, dear.  I do, too, if I can ever get through this goddam cut and paste marathon.

The always elusive  (I just typed that as “ewlisive,” but that was a mistake.  Honest) Anonymous,too let’s us know 

Yup, my inner drag queen goes beyond fierce, right through ferocious, to downright dangerous.  I think the drag name would have to be Annie Muss.  The song?  The Rolling Stones’ “Bitch”, or maybe Sir Elton’s “The Bitch is Back.”

Did you think to have Trekkiedrag on the stage?  Pretty certainly not, but that’s the beauty of Cinco or Swim: something for everyone.  And somethings for no one.

Ask the Cool Cookie, god love her, interrupts a transcontinental move to send us this

Here’s how I see myself on stage :  Miss Gypsy Rose Lee, being coy.

 And I would be fucking FABULOUS, and family friendly.

Yes dear, whatever you say.  In a scary sort of way.

Our Bold Soul Sister, Ms FirstNations, assures us she will take the stage as  “Yomama BinLoggin” and will wow whatever audience still remains with Aretha Franklin’s Respect

Do you ever find Ms FirstNations the teensiest. tiniest bit scary?  Like maybe you’d go out for a quick drink with her and wake up in some trailer park in another state in a tub of ice?  Yeah, me too.  And I say that in the most loving manner possible.  Don’t hurt me.

Our most beloved Thombeau of Planet Fabulon, the Redundant Variety Hour and points west will be pitching cleanup and sassily claims:

“Here I am as Trampe L’Oeil, international temptress. No lip-sync for moi! Basically all I do is the can-can until I become dizzy and collapse into a sweaty, drunken heap, babbling incoherently. Works every time! Of course, I rarely do drag anymore, but can often be found flouncing around the rest home, as is my way…”


Anyone surprised should raise their hand now.  No one?  No, I thought not.

And with that we’ll be ringing down the curtains, wild acclaim showering down on us all as we scrabble madly for whatever stray pharmas we can dig out of Thombeau’s bag.  Cause it’s not just mrpeenee’s drag show.  It’s my goddam party.

Tick. Tock


I went to dinner tonight with our old friends Karen and Randy for some wonderfully tasty Italian food. Karen is the kind of charmer to whom everyone with a pulse is drawn; the hostess, bartenders, waiters , kitchen staff and owners were all fawning over her like she had been their prom date some magical long gone evening. It was very amusing and gratifying to trail along in her majestic wake.

It was also sweet of them to put up with me being late, again. I got ready plenty early, started reading and looking at the internet and pondering profound thoughts and suddenly the Late Fairy was working her magic.
It’s always the same, I start out thinking “I’m going to need to go in a while” and suddenly switch over to “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m going to be late. Again.” I seem to have some kind of chronological blind spot that allows the “Time to go” sweet spot to slide right past me. It was one of the few things that annoyed the ever sweet R Man. We wound up having plenty of discussions that involved the word “dawdling” as we were scrambling to get to whatever appointment I had made us late for. Again.
Alarms, schedules, nagging boyfriends: none of them work. It’s like I see the time coming, fully prepared to get up and go, but at the neccessary point I am, instead, wondering about Barbie dolls or tacos or string theory or something and then, oops, late. Again.

Fun with Blogs

Those of you who dropped by over the last few days may have noticed I went all crazy and stuff and replaced the tasteful background I had been using here with one that was a picture of me and R Man that had been run through a warholizer.

I decided it had to go cause it was giving me a headache, but by then I had lost the picture of the fern frond and since I was too lazy to go all the way out in the yard and take another one, we are now featuring our lovely, lovely Datura Brugmansia. Revel in it, because I am also too lazy to change it for a while.
That’s just how it goes in Gaylandia. Leave a mo to his own devices long enough and redecorating is bound to happen.

Dreamy Dreams

It’s 6:50 in the morning and I’m up to write about my dream I just had.
It was set in a laundromat, the shabby kind that has mismatched equipment. Some friends and I were in this town for its film festival because they wanted to get the film they had made in the festival. Slowly, I came to realize the film their kids had put together was better and was actually going to make it and theirs wasn’t and heartache lay ahead.
Also, some cute guy was there and took all his clothes off to wash them. This really happened in a New Orleans once while I was dong my laundry and the cops took him away even though he kept protesting his pants were wet. Nothing so untoward happened in my dream so I was able to chat up the cute guy. Now that I remember it he was wearing bright blue underwear.

There was tension that one of the few working dryers was going to be available before my friends’ load had finished washing. An evil gypsy-looking guy was eyeing it. I found out another dryer that was marked Out of Order really worked if you leaned against the door to keep it closed. We told the kids that was going to be thier job and they weren’t feeling it, but isn’t that why you have children?
Because I wasn’t washing clothes and had a bunch of quarters , I was very popular. Then my friends started telling me I should only give them my quarters. I started singing You Don’t Own Me and everyone in the place joined in. Except, maybe the evil gypsy guy. Definitely the cute underwear guy

I can now fit youtube videos here in mrpeenee cause Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter told me how. Yay for Mitzi.

My Day. A Diary of Sorts

Friday, May the Whatever Friday Was-th,
San Francisco,
11:30: I arise. The cat is pleased since he has been agitating for this for two hours. I make my bed because I am tidy and because sometimes the effort of pulling the blankets back down is all that prevents me from climbing back in.

11:35 I put in my contacts, each in the correct eye on the first try. Score! Saki helps.

11:50: I stand blankly out on the patio wondering what I’m doing there. I decide to water the plants so I can look like I know what I’m doing.

11:53 I discover the withered up thyme has come back from the dead. I shall name it Jeezuz. Or maybe Midge.

12:15: I go down to the Castro to mail something. I can now definitively report, as a retired old fart, the rumor that going to the post office is an old guys’ high point of the day is true. Unless I find something good on internet Pornland.

12:17 I wander through the Castro thinking about porn.

12:20 Coffee at Peets, which may beat out porn.

12:30 San Francisco has created a charming small park by blocking off a little-used street with flatbeds holding attractive water jars filled with olive trees and flax. Locally, it’s known as “Naked Guy Park” because of the smallish gang of nudists who hang out there every day. Interviews in the local press with them reveal about half of them come from little towns over in the East Bay. They are commuting nudists. They all wear hats, which I think is very odd. If you’re going to be sitting around airing your bits, why are you worried about getting a sunburn on your head?

12:40 I return home to take a nap.


Some of you may have noticed there was some weird blog outage around here yesterday when Blogger took mrpeenee down. Dickless bastards. I had just posted my deathless prose about my New Orleans trip and when I came back from looking at porn (for clinical research purposes ONLY) I discovered a curt little message announcing I had violated their standards. Someone complained about little me? Do I complain about fat christian ladies blogging about their fat husbands and adorable spawn? Actually, I do, so that’s not a good example.
Anyway, Blogger is supposed to be a free exchange of ideas and if anyone is offended by my postings of humpy young men (none of which is particularly more racy than Abercrombie and Fitch’s catamitelogue or whatever the kids are calling it these days) they are welcome to take themselves off, off to the fat christian ladies for all I care. When this happened to MJ over at infomaniac, she warned us we were just as vulnerable. OK, I’m convinced now, but still too lazy to consider converting to WordPress. Besides, I just don’t care for Blogger deciding what I can and cannot write about.
Is this all because I mocked Tim Teblow a few posts ago? If so, just let me reiterate; when it comes to hot guys, I have stepped over better than him and not looked back.
In honor of my new “adult content warning” (which only appears sporadically, much like Tim Tebow’s mangina,) I’m happy to present something worth looking at.

You’re welcome.



Yet another Beaster. Meester Beaster, I believe.

Painting the stupid office led (somehow) to cleaning out the garage. While I was in the middle of disinterring crap from ages gone by, I ran across a trunk of R Man’s stuffed full of old letters and cards and his yearbook from when he was a delegate to Boy’s State (isn’t that adorable?)

Mixed in with the other ephemera was a letter addressed simply to “Beaster.” That got a good laugh, let me tell you. R Man was the most courtly, gentlemanly being since Victoria’s regent shuffled off and he lived life with an unstuffy gravitas that charmed everyone who knew him. He was also fond of a little rough sex, so certainly I wasn’t the least surprised about this form of address.
There was no signature. I guess the writer supposed anyone he was calling “Beaster” would recognize him. In this, I believe the author might have been a tad bit over-confident. R Man, and, indeed, anyone worthy of the sobriquet “Beaster,” cast a wide net and counting on him to remember every fawning toff was just sort of delusional. Also, counting on R Man to be pleased with a nickname as sappy as “Beaster” was pretty unlikely, but that’s neither here no there.
For myself, I initially called him “Daddy” and then for years never got around to coming up with anything else. Inertia. It happens. Eventually, that morphed into “Doo-doo” and then “Doo-doo Head.” Again, neither here nor there.
Speaking of icky, TMI babytalk between longtime companions, he called me “Peenee.” Perhaps you had wondered where “mrpeenee” came from? Perhaps you should have. I recall how annoyed I was the first time he slipped up and called me that in front of our friend Ricky, who then adopted it enthusiastically as what he referred to me as for years. Of course, R Man and I called Ricky “The Felonious Little Tart” so I suppose we were all even.

More Beauty Tips

I wandered into middle age resigned to a receding hairline; the sheen of my scalp was obvious early on. One of my strongest vows to myself was to never try to hide it. Comb-overs, rugs, plugs: ick, no thanks. Still, one day when R Man and I were trying to buy me a suit I was stunned to look in the three way mirror and find a bald spot in the back. I felt betrayed by my own follicles. Wasn’t it bad enough they were fleeing from the front? Did they have to sneak out the back as well?
But even once I capitulated on the top of my head, I was not prepared to realize I was also losing my eyebrows. What the hell? In all the cultural bitching about aging we have, I don’t every remember anyone touching on the topic of eyebrow loss. More than the sparseness above, I think my patchy brows is my most aging feature, with the few remaining hairs all old-man shaggy and gray, the worst of both worlds.


My recent sojourn at the spa/salon brought to light the idea of eyebrow tinting. What do you think? I wouldn’t go for the Joan Collins circa 1963 thang, but I think just darker brown than the washed out gray I’m working with now might be just the ticket. It’s bound to be cheaper than a Botox party.

Clip Job


I smell good. In fact, I smell fabulous. I needed to cut my fingernails this afternoon, but instead of standing over the toilet with a pair of clippers and a blank look on m face, I decided to go get a manicure.
I had seen a nail salon in the Castro named Hand Job; where else could I go?

Let me point out now how very disappointed I have been in my female friends, none of whom will go with me to get a manicure. What’s with that? They all claim to be squeamish about people touching their nails. I adore it. In fact once I got into the shop, I decided to spring for a pedicure and then for a foot massage. It’s all about taking care of yourself. My manicurist told me so, along with about an hour’s worth of excessive personal information. Aside from that, it was heaven, especially the tuberose/citrus moisturizer the slathered on.
I smell fabulous.