Category Archives: r man

That Time of Year

Standard

So January 14 was the anniversary of R Man’s death.  Several friends, including mrpeenee readers, sent charming, touching emails and some others posted about it on their sites, which I think is unbelievably sweet.  I, on the other hand, completely, totally forgot it, until I read the notes and posts.

I am not good about anniversaries, they seem to not have the significance for me they do other people.  I only remember my birthday, R Man’s birthday and the date we met, and that’s simply because it was the day before his birthday.  I know our wedding was sometime in the fall only because I remember at the party afterwards the datura on the patio was blooming.  I am one of the few people in America who can never recall the date of Christmas.  I know it’s December 24 or 25, but despite a lifetime of being reminded and looking it up (as I did just now,)  I am still never sure which it is, and on some particularly bad years, a suspicion that it might just be December 26 sneaks in.

So the date I lost R Man (cheeky bastard, sneaking off like that.)?  Not a clue.  If I hadn’t posted something about here with the specific date when it happened, I would be out of luck.

It’s not to say I have “moved on.”  I miss him every fucking day, achingly.  It’s just, as I told Secret Agent Fred when we were trading widow stories, I don’t need a peg (like an anniversary or a sad song) to hang my grief on.  It sits on my shoulder all the time and sometimes it calls my attention to itself and sometimes, mercifully, it doesn’t.  The weeks leading up to his death were the worst time in my life, miserable and exhausting and heartbreaking, and I do not need a reminder of them because believe me, I am in no danger of forgetting.

So what was I doing on the anniversary?  I don’t know, sleeping, watching porn or detective shows on TV, or obeying Saki’s commands; the yoozh.  I have a gorgeous new pair of John Varvatos boots and I’m breaking them in by wearing them around the house and trying to dance in them without actually falling down.  I hope that’s what I was doing.

Out of the Darkness

Standard

So I meant to post on Wednesday, Sept. 25 that it was the fifth anniversary of my wedding to R Man, but before I could get around to it, the power went out, so instead Secret Agent Fred and I wandered around the house, lighting candles and tripping on things.

I was going to whine about living without R Man, but you know what?  I don’t want to.  I’m doing better now than when he died then and I expect to continue that way.  Instead of writing some droopy, sad little post about missing R Man, I went to bed early.

Then this afternoon, I took Saki down to get his claws clipped on Castro while I went across the street to get my own nails done at Handjob.  I don’t know why he pretends manicures are so traumatic, I like them.

I have no idea what’s going on in the photo above.  I just find it amusing.

Get Jiggy Wid It

Standard

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.

R Man

Standard

I have spent most of the evening attempting to organize the vast mess my collection of photos has devolved into over the last couple of decades.  Listening to Nina Simone seems appropriate; the fucking cat insisting on being in the middle of all my little OCD piles is not.  Plus, even without Saki rearranging them, the piles seem to have become sort of vague.  A twelve year old mrpeenee in Matamoros; a wedding in Las Vegas where mrpeenee was the matron of Honor only because the bride was operating under the misapprehension that I was willing to appear in drag as such (to be fair, there are several piles that includes shots of mrpeenee in Ladies Wear); the gardens of Chezz peenee through the years.  So many pictures, so few good ones.

And so much R Man.  I have, of late, become aware that the pain of his absence is lessened.  I still miss him in an achy sort of way, but it’s amazing what you can get accustomed to.  It’s like being resigned to a big hole in my life.  Anyway, here he is in Venice in ’95

Isn’t he handsome?  Achy.

And his high school graduation photo, Mr. Class President and football team and all that.  I’ve always been struck that this version of him would most certainly have despised and avoided the faggy teenage loser I was, but just a few years later we were settling, sort of tentatively, into domestic bliss.  Thank god, in my case at least, for the forgiving editing process of time and all that.

And then I ran across this, one of my all time faves, a relic from some long ago foot surgery and which, most assuredly, would never have been allowed out loose on this blog while he still had veto power.  Heehee

A Good Cry. Putting the "Moron" in "Oxymoron"

Standard

I don’t cry. I am not a crying person.   I say that not as some testimony to how tough or butch I am (there’s an amusing idea,) it’s just not how I react.  When R Man sickened and died, I made it through those very dark days without a tear, and not because I restrained myself;  I just don’t cry.

Imagine my surprise tonight, then, as I watched the movie 50/50 and burst into huge weeping sobs. Wracking, wailing, misery pouring from several orifices.  I had to pause the movie.  I scared Saki.  I sort of scared myself, a rational part of me watching horrified demanding to know what the fuck was going on.  Could it be more than just reacting to cinematic mastery?  Mmmmmmmaybe.

When the movie first came out and got such good reviews, I considered going to watch it, even though a film about dealing with cancer sounded like trouble after the last couple of years.  Thank god I skipped it; I have a vivid mental image of myself huddled in tears in the men’s room of the Lowe’s metroplex.  Yuck.

Maybe it was just a perfect emotional storm.  I’m still sick; R Man’s death is (obviously, understandably) a sensitive part of my life; and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is both cute and effective in the role.  Still, I just wasn’t prepared for this.   I have so little experience with the phenomenon, I didn’t even know crying makes your face hurt.  Does that seem fair?  First you feel bad and then you feel bad?

Crying.  What a stupid idea.

Fredly

Standard
How sweet it is to have dear friends like Secret Agent Fred, friends who confirm that one is not alone in the cold heartless universe. Just the other day at lunch he revealed that he had been yelled at by some hopped up crackhead stranger on the street and it was the exact same day that I had been yelled at by some stranger in the Safeway parking lot, albeit one of the crazy old lady variety. But still, it’s like we’re bound by Karma.
I was just trundling back to my car with a cart full of catfood when my path intersected the old bat who shrieked “I don’t have any peripheral vision.” For a cloudy instant (cause, as usual, I was not paying attention) I thought she was trying to make conversation with me, in a loud, rude sort of way. Maybe that’s how she picks up guys, I don’t know. I suppose I could have replied “My cat has gas,” but then I realized she was rebuking me, so it’s just as well. Did I mention the huge ass Darth Vader sunglasses?
I made my patented noise I always do in these situations, which is somewhere between “Sorry” and “Uhh” but by then she had moved on. Also by then I realized that the Safeway parking lot is not in a particularly pedestrian friendly part of town. Sure enough, I watched her climb into her Pontiac/Buick/Oldsmobile/Whatever Death Machine. I got the hell out of there; I did not want to share the road with Old Lady Magoo if I could help it.
This evening, Fred also sent us a bunch of old pictures he’s taken over the years of me and R Man together. They included this one demonstrating my super power of holding in my gut while walking. It was very sweet of him. That queen is a paragon of friendship. Girlfriendship, in fact.


Also, not from Fred, but part of our extensive Houseboy files.



30 Years

Standard
Today is the thirtieth anniversary of my meeting R Man in the back room of a sleazy bar in New Orleans called Jewels. Thirty years. I wasn’t even thirty when I met him. While the moment is poignant, I’m trying not to be all mopey and stuff and I seem to be doing ok. Still, when he was cremated and I got the ashes back (doesn’t the funeral industry’s preferred term, “cremains” seem creepier than something as straightforward and accurate as “ashes”?) I couldn’t face scattering them, so I decided to wait for this anniversary instead. In April it was plenty far off enough to be safe somehow. Now that it’s here, I still dread the whole sad idea, so I’m putting it off indefinitely. My plan is to stand at the top of our backyard, where there is almost always a breeze and toss them down into the yard, someday. Turns out that is illegal in San Francisco which adds a tiny frisson to it, but not much.
To mark our anniversary, I’m going out to dinner tonight with a gang who also loved R Man. We’re headed over to Berkeley to the reliably fabulous Chez Panisse. I’m taking Vicodin and a camera with me. Details to follow.
In the meantime, here’s some houseboy pussy, complete with Stupid Hair, the bane of cute boys everywhere.


More Dreamy Dreams

Standard
I’m reluctant to discuss the dream I had Friday night for two reasons. For one thing, it’s very difficult to describe, very slippery, and two, it’s embarrassingly shcmaltzy. But I’m going to to try, because the impression it left behind was so amazingly strong.
I’ll finish with some beefcake muscle pussy, just to even things out,
So, the dream, or more specifically the waking up, since I have no idea what the dream itself was. Stay with me. When I woke up I understood I had been dreaming about R Man and it seemed like the whole thing had no story or visual impression or memory, just an immersion in R Man himself. I came to with a vivid sense of how sweet he always had been. Not that he was a girl scout or suffered fools gladly, but he always had a deep lovability and kindness that was never syrupy. And when I woke up, it seemed like I had been swimming in his very sweet nature. It had been all around me like light is on a bright day.
Crap. I absolutely am failing at this. There is just no way to explain what the sensation was. It was totally different from any dream I’ve ever had. Of course, trying to describe a dream never works, but still, even among dreams, this was unique to me. It was wonderful. I laid in bed wrapped up in the emotion of it, reveling in it. If there was one brief moment of my life I could relive, it would be that one. That’s how profound it was.
Oh, never mind. I knew, planning this post, it would never work. It’s like describing color to a blind man, frustrating to me and boring to the reader. Let’s move on, shall we?
Ask the Cool Cookie, over at I’m a Filthy Fucker (and who am I to doubt his assertion?) posted this charming image earlier this week:

I was very impressed by it.

My encyclopedic memory of smarm is so vast I was actually able to remember that the original was this:


Both have their charms, but I am always impressed by artisans and whoever ran this through Photoshop so successfully deserves our wholehearted admiration, don’t you think? Yes, the beard may be a trifle plush (although that’s probably part of its appeal,) but the chest hairs would seem to have been placed individually, each one nudged into place by somebody as devoted to his art as a medieval monk illuminating a manuscript of the Gospel. I say right on, girl.

Self Pity and Cyndi Lauper

Standard

I know R Man has just sort of disappeared from my exciting blog reporting. I haven’t gotten used to his absence, I don’t think that will never happen. But I’ve sort of gotten resigned to it. Sort of. There are tedious forms about his death demanding my attention, and a very big house that is very, very quiet, and things like this song.

We were both so fond of it, I remember I was surprised how much he liked it. Naturally, its melancholy, minor key bad self will pop up on my I Tunes shuffle and take me unawares and suddenly, I am a little less resigned.
I’m writing this at 3:00 AM. I will probably regret it tomorrow, but a lot of this blog has turned out to be a note to myself, so I’m asking not to delete this post.
Here: