Category Archives: old age

More Dental Drama


I had to go back to the dentist again today. Readers might remember I have shared with them numerous visits over the last 2 years of varying annoyance, discomfort, and expense. I have now spent more time with my dentist (actually, make that plural, I have two because I am just that special) more time with my dentists than I have with my friends, thank you quarantine. We have shared so much time together I have to assume we qualify for domestic partners benefits.

Today’s trip was the conclusion of two previous adventures. One was a simple little root canal (I am alarmed that I have become so inured to dental torture that I classify root canals as “simple”) that I had last month and for which I got the crown today. The other is just the latest installment in a tooth opera which began in February of 2018. 2 0 1 8. Does anyone else remember 2018? Have unfinished business from then?

To recap for those of you not paying attention, and I know there are plenty of you, I developed a hole in my jaw bone. The tooth above the Bone Hole TM required a root canal (do you see a pattern here?) which then had to be filled and then refilled every other month for a year. Hilarious. Finally, I don’t know, the dentists got bored or something and they pulled the tooth. They also had to pull the tooth and crown next to it because the Bone HoleTM tooth had anchored a bridge. Which brings us to today where I was being fitted for a removable partial bridge to deal with the gaping maw in my lower teeth. Altogether, 3 hours in the chair today, which turns out to outlast the Xanax I started with.

I have not taken up a new sideline in creampie porn. That’s the dried goop from the mould for the bridge. Shut up

Oddly, I was lucky enough to have almost no tooth problems during most of my so-called adult years. I’d go in and get my cleaning, they’d say “Lookin’ good, mrpeenee.” “You too Mr. dentist,” I’d reply as I returned to a life of excessive pastries. All that changed when I crossed the magic barrier of age 50. Fifty, when your prostate swells, your mouth revolts and declares itself the Glorious Independent Republic of Oralslovakia, and those darn kids will not stay off your lawn.

Proving my theory that my dentist and mouth are conspiring against me, while finishing the crown, the serene highness dentist discovered a tooth just rotted away, but which had been hiding it’s decay behind the crowned tooth. “Oh, that’s going to have to go,” the dear little man said. Have my teeth decided to abandon ship? Are things that bad? Fine. See you next time.

Toothsome young mens:

A work of art.

We must have just missed the vampire.

Yet another example of mrpeenee’s love for the Big Lug.

Uptown funk gonna give it to you

Just hangin’ around in the toilet, office.

The disagreement over cut versus uncut will never be solved, but everybody likes great big nuts.

Finally, here’s a cheerful farewell. The vaccine is on its way, lockdown cannot last forever, enjoy the weekend.

Do You Smell That?


So I recently beat out this guy for a seat on the bench at Peet’s cafe, cause I am super spry, and he sort of glared at me, but get real, I grew up with two mean older brothers.  You think your beetling eyebrows are going to deter me?  Huh.   But then he got the last laugh when he plopped down next to me to chat with some loser on the other end of the seat and a wave of his stinky old man smell washed over the whole place.  Is that what I needed to go with my cream cheese and blueberry danish?  I think not.  So very not.

And then this evening at the Kabuki Spa, where I was on the receiving end of one of the great massages of our time, the locker room was ripe with Eau de Old Guy.  You know what I mean; it is the aural equivalent of the wrinkledy specimens so unfortunately on view over at Infomaniac

What is with that?  Why is there a specific stench tied to how old you are?  A quick Google search reveals there is, naturalment, a Japanese study that reveals it is a real thing (duh) tied to the breakdown in fatty acids among seniors.  And while we’re at it, have you ever noticed any bizarre question leads to a Japanese study?  Other research has topics like Political Subdivisions in 18th Century Bohemian Nationalism.   Japan’s got Why Do Old People Smell Like That?

This is not idle curiosity on my part.  Not only do I have exquisitely delicate sensibilities, I am an Old Guy.  Worse I am a fair skinned Old Guy and somehow my peeps and I are the ones who seem particularly fragrant.  More Google searching turns up the assurance that this stinkiness seems to be tied to evolution cruelly insuring that nubile youth do not inadvertently mate with monkeys too old to provide for the offspring.   “Yes, I would let you mount me if you did not smell of impending death.”  Ouch.  Harsh, evolution, harsh.

And so I wash and scrub (with Dove soap.  If I cannot smell like a young buck, at least I can smell like a Lady) and I have made Secret Agent Fred promise to soak me in a tub of lavender fragrance, Clorox and turpentine if I ever to start to turn into a stinky old man.  Still, I brood.

On a related note, circling back to the Kabuki Spa, let me just say that I am opposed to the death penalty, but only conditionally.  I firmly believe anyone who farts in a steam room deserves the chair, cause really?  Perhaps you are not familiar with the engineering of steam rooms, but believe me, fresh air circulation is not way up on the list.

But to prove I am not just cranky, here:

Almost certainly not weighed down by Stinky Old Man Smell.

Stupid Back


My back, never terribly cooperative at the best of times, has been giving me grief all week.  I took to my bed with ice packs and muscle relaxants, hounded my chiropractor, prayed to the Psychic Friends – nothing helped.  Then this morning I dragged my sorry ass of to a “late brunch” (which is code for drinks and vicodin) with Secret Agent Fred and several friends and now, many hours later, I feel ever so much better.   Maybe it was the pizza.

A graphic representation of my backache this week:


Much better.


Much better.

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.

Back from the Blind


Perhaps you already know about the wonders of Flexible Spending Accounts. Your employer deposits a chunk of your salary you choose each year and you get to spend it on your medical expenses. The money is not taxed and, in federal employees’ case anyway, the entire amount you designate is available immediately so it’s like an interest free loan for a year. The down side is any money in the account you don’t spend by the end of the year, you lose. It’s like a not very amusing game. In December you have to guess how sick you’re going to get in the next year and how expensive it will be.
This year, I wildly overshot and so now I’m scrambling around trying to spend up all the money still hanging around my account. Since the pinheads at FSA will not recognize rentboys as legitimate medical expenses, I was considering decorative surgery, but decided to spring for new glasses instead. I picked them up this afternoon.
I assume plenty of you guys are myopic because, you know, so many of you use big words in your comments. Thus you’ll understand the thrill of new glasses. Never again will the world look so crisply clear as it does through brand new lenses.
So what did I see, wandering through the Castro, my eyesight all tuned up?
(Of course I didn’t think to take my camera, so all images are approximate and swiped from various websites.)
The agapanthus on Market and Noe are remarkably brilliant blue.

The storefront that used to house Earthtones, a fairly charming tchotchke store, is now reopening as a combination wine bar and jewelry store.

What? Is their business plan that customers will get drunk and pop for overpriced bijoux? It seems like an unlikely concept.
Plenty, plenty of cute guys. Reveling in my new found ability to focus, I was looking around absentmindedly and suddenly realized I was staring at an absolutely ravishing boy. Good Heavens.

He had on a lovely olive green sweater, too.
Even as I realized what I was doing, I also saw that he was looking directly through me, invisible as a glass window in his path. That didn’t bother me; I had my turn and now it’s his. What it did do, however, was make me wonder what it would be like to be young and so very good looking and living in San Francisco. I know, I know, everyone has their own pains and sorrows, rain falls on the beautiful and the ugly alike, blahblahblah. Still, what is like, to turn heads everywhere you go? I’ll never know, I’d just be satisfied with his sweater.

Walmart Abuse


Do I condone smacking some brat screeching nonstop in public? Certainly not. Do I understand the desire to do so? Oh my yes. Personally, I’m a grouchy old man and a kid with a broken volume control is one of those things that make me twitch with rage. But I control myself; I pick up my giant 36 pack carton of Ramen and get the hell out of Walmart. I do not lay into the little spawn of Satan and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t leave witnesses to point me out to the cops.

But that would appear to not be the M.O. of one Roger Stephens of Stone Mountain. I can commiserate, but not excuse him. He’s 61, stuck in a Georgia Walmart, his days as a hot stud are so far behind him he can’t even see them in the rear view mirror and now this kid will not SHUT THE FUCK UP AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH.


STONE MOUNTAIN, Ga. – Police say a 61-year-old man annoyed with a crying 2-year-old girl at a Walmart slapped the child several times after warning the toddler’s mother to keep her quiet.

A police report says after the stranger hit the girl at least four times, he said: “See, I told you I would shut her up.”

Roger Stephens of Stone Mountain is charged with felony cruelty to children. It was unclear if he had an attorney and a telephone call to his home Wednesday was unanswered.

Authorities say the girl and her mother were shopping Monday when the toddler began crying. The police report says Stephens approached the mother and said, “If you don’t shut that baby up, I will shut her up for you.”

Authorities say after Stephens slapped the girl, she began screaming.

Really, haven’t we all been there before?

Everything Counts in Large Amounts


Not to harp on the same topic, but twice today I’ve felt like an old man. A skeezy old man. Skeeze 1) I was getting my regular breakfast at Peet’s, turned around from the counter with apple danish in hand and came face to face with one of the most spectacularly beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Thick muscles, think lips, thick hair, oh, you know, the usual perfection. I stopped in my tracks, my jaw dropped, it’s possible I gasped. I also realized as I was standing there gaping that I was blocking his progress to the cash register. I only hope he’s so accustomed to stunning passersby with his good looks that he didn’t notice.

Skeeze 2) I’m organizing several filming segments for a content aggregator web site and a new cameraman showed up just now, apparently taking time off from his other job as a Professional Beauty. Curly black hair, skin Lancome can only dream of approximating and the adorable face of a Renaissance putti. I had to talk to him at length about the video and forced myself not to stare at the nipples poking through his shirt. Eventually I had to cut it short and flee before I started drooling.

It’s the burden of living in San Francisco. I suppose the subway going home tonight will be filled with porn stars.

Old mrpeenee


R Man’s work exposes him to the many wonders of nursing home life, insights about which he passes on to me, including tips about Wander Guards. Here’s what the Azalea Trail Nursing Home in Grand Saline, Texas has to say about them

“Residents who are still very mobile and at risk of wandering out of the facility alone, but who would not be safe if they did so, wear a lightweight signaling device on their wrist or ankle. Whenever one of the residents is about to leave the facility, the staff is notified by an audible sound and thus able to assist the person.”

I have heard before that the Inuit people put their old folks out on ice floes once they can no longer pull their weight around the igloo and I think I might just prefer that to setting off alarms at the Azalea Trail as I try to sneak out.

And this is not mere flippancy. My family tends towards either dying early of white trash type diseases (which I seem to have avoided) or being long lived and crazy. Oh dear. My goal is to emulate my great-aunt Lucille. A gold digger in her youth, she snagged a much older rich guy, had no kids, and spent most of her adult life comfortably as a rich widow. I don’t particularly want any of that, I’m not interested in trading R Man for a widowhood, no matter how comfortable, but at the end she lapsed into cheerful insanity, in merry good spirits and totally oblivious to the world around her. That’s the part I want. I don’t care if I’m crazy, I just don’t want to know about it.