Category Archives: san francisco

Let’s See the Good Stuff


This afternoon, in the Castro, I was loading up the parking meter and thinking, bitterly, that soon it will be cheaper to just take the ticket when Secret Agent Fred appeared at my elbow and gleefully announced “There’s a cute naked guy down at Naked Guy Park.”

You have to understand, this is an occurrence of no small rarity.  For the last couple of years, a smallish park a the intersection of Castro and Market Streets has been the gathering for a bunch of guys who like to hang around naked.  Part of San Francisco’s municipally freethinking traits is that that was legal.  Of course, as everyone agreed, only the people you least wanted to see naked participated in this, but still I sort of applauded the idea of it.

Then last fall the supervisor for the district managed to push through an ordinance that banned public nudity.  There was lots of “Who will think of The Children?” associated with the effort.  I was not impressed.  I think if you don’t want your precious spawn to see naked wieners it should be up to you to prevent them from doing so.  Plus it’s 2013.  What kind of shut-in brat hasn’t seen all the naked people he wants to?

The ordinance passed just as the weather changed and it was too chilly for even the most devoted buff lover to flash his bits so it seemed sort of like a done deal.  Lately, though, as the season as warmed back up, the nudists have turned out to protest the law.  I say “Right on, fly that freak flag,” but again, so very much not who I want to see.  You know those flabby, wrinkledy unfortunates MJ features over at Infomaniac?  Think about a small parkfull of them, standing between you and the coffee you need so badly.

Thus, Fred’s excitement at the all too rare exception.  He was moved to provide photographic proof

Thank you Fred.  I have no idea what’s up with the red chick.

Since I have a background in marketing, I am happy to provide an alternative to the protestors: pay cute guys to roam bare butt.  You want to win the doubters’ hearts and minds?  Flash something like this a few times a day for a couple of weeks and see how quick all those nattering naybobs jump on your bandwagon.

Just Answer the Question


Dearies, so sorry to be sort of AWOL lately (did you notice?  Shut up.)  Aunt peenee has been involved in a bad patch of neck-and-back aches and crouching over a keyboard to knock out a blog post was just so not appealing.

In the midst of my personal Hunchback Festival, I had to go run a bunch of errands.  Isn’t that always the way?  On the list was a smog certification test for my car so I trotted on down to a typically grimy little garage fitted out with all those oily garage-type thingies, one astonishingly cute technician and the issue of W magazine that had a feature about Chris Hemsworth.  Of course.  I do so love living in San Francisco.

To kill some time, I limped over to a hideous nearby cafe.  Lit with mercury vapor lamps, it had the same charming ambiance of the New Orleans police department’s holding cells.  How, you ask, does mrpeenee know what the inside of the NOPD lockdown looks like? Let’s stay on point here, shall we?

While trying to find an empty seat for me and what they cynically claimed was coffee, I realized all the management, staff and clientele looked like their resumes (or rap sheets) would include the phrase “sheltered workshop.”  Prominently.  Amazingly, the best available table was right next to two very good looking men even more out of place in the joint than I was.

It didn’t take me long to realize it was a job interview.  In a skeezy cafe at 5:30 in a questionable part of town.  Hmmm.  The guy interviewing was using all those pointless questions H.R. teaches clueless management, like “If you could be a tree, what kind of tree would be?’  instead of “Can you do this job?” and “Will the petty cash box be safe around you?”  There was lots of pointless yammering about “team evolution.”  It’s possible the word “paradigm” was let loose.

Since the interviewee looked like this

except in a navy blue sweater, or as much of the sweater as could stretch over his massive massiveness, I briefly entertained myself by wondering if it was possible that he was shooting for a job in the pornography field.  It certainly seems like it would have been an excellent career choice.  Then I remembered that almost certainly a porn interview would have been much more along the lines of “Let me see it.  Hard.”  Which would have been okay with me and probably the rest of the cafe.  Certainly the barista.  It also would have been more useful than asking “What do you think your personal weakness in a group dynamic might be?” although that could apply to the world of smut too.

I do so love living in San Francisco.

In Which Fred Causes Trouble. Again


Secret Agent Fred and I were out sort of running errands earlier this week.  Actually, let me correct that, “running errands” sounds infinitely more focused and purposeful than Fred and I ever are.  Think of it more as “We were wandering around and occasionally, errand-like events more or less occurred.”  Yeah, that’s more like it.  Anyway, as part of our bumbling, we washed ashore in an odd part of town near the nursery I like because they always have a huge clearance sale this time of year to make room for Xmas trees and I have scored some prime flowers and shrubs there marked down to less than 75 per cent of the original asking price.

I wanted to also show Fred an odd little gem near there that’s fascinated me for years.  I assume the Silver Crest Donut Shop is Exhibit A on somebody’s thesis trying to prove holes in the fabric of time exists.  A grimy, 24 hour joint with a pool hall beer joint in the back, it has obviously never been touched by the brush of gentrification so obvious in other parts of San Francisco.  It usually seems deserted, but the beer joint is so dark, it’s impossible to be sure what’s lurking around the edges.  Child molesting gremlins, at a guess.  I understand patrons refer to it as “The Crust.”

We rolled in and Fred was boggled and started shooting pictures of the out of date decor and semi-antique fixtures.  A frumpy hag shuffled out of the bar and agreed to sell me two donuts, but made her dark suspicions concerning the two of us evident. She repeated my order several times, with the emphasis shifting around in it as if she was trying to figure out what my con was.  “You want two donuts?”  “You want two donuts?”  “You want two donuts?”  By the time she was through even I was wondering what I was covering up.  Did I mention her thick Russian accent?  Oh yeah.

Then she noticed Fred and his camera and her background as a Russian mafia hit man kicked in.  “No pictures.  This private property.  Stop pictures.”  We got the donuts and fled, it seemed possible she would have been training to kill armed with nothing but her ratty mule house shoe.

I did get some nice plants at the sale.

mrpeenee Explains Baseball


Baseball is not the one with the pointy brown ball, that’s football (but not the football all the rest of the world calls football,) it’s the one with the small white ball, but not the really small ball cause that’s golf.  There are a whole bunch of rules, the point of which are to make the whole fucking thing take longer than it needs to.  The last time mrpeenee was dragged to a game he was caught reading a book by his long suffering father.  I was bored, what did he expect?  As Aunt Ida in Female Trouble reports “The world of heterosexual is a sick and boring life.”

So the World Series apparently is this baseball thing, much like Project Runway’s Season Finale, and San Francisco is in the series hoo hoo, and seems to be winning, more hoo hoo.  Even as a sportsphobic gayboy, I have to admit it is sort of thrilling to have the home team doing so well.  You go girls!

Just this evening, a particularly pleasant, warm l’heure bleue, Secret Agent Fred and I were making our way through the Castro and the queer bars were yelling and high fiving like a Hooters after too much cheap speed with all the TVs tuned into the game.  I’m pretty sure most of these poofters have no firmer athletic insights than does mrpeenee, but they were not allowing that to slow down their sloe-gin-fizz-fueled mayhem.

Baseball.  Yay.

In Which mrpeenee Hugs a Tree


Before I start whining again, let me clear up an earlier misunderstanding.  Last spring I wrote about the canyon I call home, including this shot of neighborhood eucalyptus,

and dear NormaDesmond commented something along the lines of being surprised since he thought I lived in San Francisco.  SIGH.  As a matter of fact, I live not only in San Francisco, but in the very center of it, geographically.  It just happens that my neighborhood is a huge canyon (the unimaginatively named Glen Canyon,) undeveloped except for the street I live on.  I suspect this represents real estate development shenanigans, but it’s ok with me because I get to live like Lisa Douglas from Green Acres: a big city gal surrounded by greenery.

Anyway, I interrupted my demanding schedule of vicodin induced napping to bustle down to a meeting this afternoon at the Glen Canyon Rec Center (a Rec Center!  Complete with muscular young hooligans shooting hoops next door.) that had been called to protest over plans to cut down a bunch of the enormous eucalytus and other trees that fill the canyon.

San Francisco is a tiny peninsula wedged between the Pacific Ocean and the Bay with no rain nine months out of the year.  Before the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it had no trees, just windswept sand dunes and stunted scrub.  By the 1920’s, agressive planting of eukes, cypress and pines in the parks and open spaces around town had helped alleviate that to a degree, but San Francisco still has one of the smallest surface areas covered by a tree canopy in America.  We have about 12 percent; not much more than Las Vegas, for christ sake, and far less than Houston’s more than 30 per cent.

So it would seem like, with climate change looming, we would cling to each tree, tooth and nail.  Instead, the SF recreation and parks’ Natural Areas Program pushed through city legislation to remove thousands of trees here to help restore the landscape to what it was originally.  Hard to argue with that, but I do because I do not think the trade off of all the trees is worth it.

The meeting was exactly what I expected, a roomful of old local hippies with a seasoning of crazy guys.  They’re slated to start cutting trees in a couple of weeks and I don’t know if this protest has any chance of working.

Again, sigh.
Why do I expect this is not what’s in store?

Open Your Golden Gate. Five Dollar Toll.


There is, for many of us, a sort of quiet, overcoming-adversity pride to living in San Francisco, one of the most expensive cities on the planet.  We few, we happy few, we band of brothers face down real estate prices that compete with Manhattan; groceries which, by weight, cost about the same as narcotics; and gasoline that appears to be a handcrafted and smuggled in at night to judge by what we pay at the pump.  And now this:

From the San Francisco Chronicle’s Sept. 4 story on parking meters (which were charging on Labor Day.  No free parking for you, sucker!)

Starting in January, the city will begin handing out tickets for expired meters seven days a week, Sundays included. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s will be the only days when meters won’t be enforced.

It’s the little things.

On the other hand, our dear sistah Magda in New Orleans writes that today was the first he’s had power since the hurricane passed through five days ago.  Let me tell you, sweetie, five days at the end of the summer in NOLA with no air conditioning is not something anyone should have to face.

Meanwhile, back home in SF, I went out for drinks with some friends and was freezing because I had forgotten a jacket.  You’d think more than 20 years here would teach me, but no.  Maybe I just can’t afford common sense.

Houseboy booty.  Don’t forget Speak Like a Pirate Day is coming up, Sept. 19.  Arrgh.  Prepare to be boarded.

Rhymes with Cough


It’s Gay Pride AGAIN? Already?  I can tell because the lovely warm weather we had for the better part of a week has imploded and we are back to the San Francisco norm: chilly and gray and foggy.  As a San Franciscan, that’s ok with me (I always feel underdressed without a sweater or two,) but one does feel sorry for the pathetic tourists, foolishly dressed for what they thought was California as they stand around shivering and their bare legs turn blue.  I snuggle into my summer suede coat and think “Sorry, suckers,” and hurry past them.  Sad, really.

Tourists were very much on my mind this afternoon hanging around my favorite little cafe, Peet’s, trying to read as a table of them loudly debated the correct pronunciation of the local major thoroughfare, Gough Street.  There were several brave cracks at it, including the classics “Goh” and “Gow” and “Joff” and one of them even landed, briefly on the correct “Goff,” but was voted down by his fellows.  Again, sad, because I’m sure the snotty cab drivers hereabouts will refuse to take you anywhere you can’t pronounce to their satisfaction.

Possible gays, but pretty much what representative of what you can be sure will be in the decided minority come Pride Day.

Sos anyway, I’m preparing to hunker down and ride out the rainbow colored madness of it all. I have some errands on Friday and after that, it’s me and the cat home all weekend casue I’m already plenty gay enough, thanks.

A Day of Beauty


What a lovely, San Francisco kind of day. It rained all night, but today is crisp and fresh washed, the perfect day for an elderly poof, such as I, to go down to the Castro to get my hair did and a mani-pedi. Loved it.
Castro Street was at its most charming.

Some guy was sprawled on the side walk so I asked “Are you all right?” He replied indiginanatly “Of course I am.” Of course he was, and all was right with the world.
Is there anything better than gossip to go with your hair-do? My beautician, Jeff, was in rare form because a big muscley thing was in one of the chairs on the other side of the very small shop and Jeff had to practically whisper the dirt to me, which just improved it, n’est-ce pas? Seems Miss Muscle Thang has recently divorced his wife the better to pursue his sideline of snagging rich old men. He looked sort of like this, but more or less in clothes.

On behalf of old men everywhere, I say if you look like a gold digger, if you gots the gold digging equipment, go dig the mother fucking gold and make some old man happy. Plus, for some reason, Jeff does a better job cutting my hair when he’s distracted with gossip, so yay.
Then, on to Hand Job for my nails. Although I never specify who I want, I almost always wind up with Malwani. I have the impression she is not the most popular girl there, possibly because she is one of the homeliest trannies I’ve ever seen. But really, I’m not there for a date, so what do I care?

She does have spectacular nails, which is encouraging.
There used to be a kind of nice looking guy here who has vanished and my dragdar tells me he may have grown his hair out, rooted through his mawmaw’s jewelery box and emerged as Malwani. There are some Ladies who go through the change and give it their all, attempting to be the most feminine creature possible. Others make no effort to hide their more masculine voice and profile, who decide that they are all the girl they need to be and they are the ones I applaud and that seems to be Our Girl Malwani.
Also, Malawani understand my cuticles.
At the other end of the Hand Job spectrum, their receptionist/esthetician is this terribly cute boy named Frank.

I think a little eye candy improves any beauty regimen, don’t you? One of the services Hand Job offers is a Boyzilian Wax, the very idea of which makes my nuts retract into my body cavity and which I think Frank may be modeling here:

He’s also a model, you can see his site at Nakkid youth

I have no idea if his facials include a happy ending; I’m simply happy to live in San Francisco, where the guy booking your pedicure is possibly an up-and-coming porn star, or should be anyway.

Season’s Bleatings

In my earlier post “Season’s Greetings” I also meant to mention that on Friday when I was wandering around the Castro, a car passed me a couple of times with the driver yelling out of his open window “Occupy Mindless Consumerism.” Doesn’t that seem to be a sort of mixed metaphor? The entire Occupy movement appeals to me and reminds me strongly of my hippie youth, but even so, you need to be conscious of whether your slogans make any sense.
Plus, a nice Friday afternoon on Castro and 18th Street is not exactly ground zero for the One Percent’s heedless consumption of unnecessary purchases, even if it is a week before Christmas. Most of the other people occupying the sidewalk with me seemed to be, just like me, out running errands at Walgreen’s and the grocery and the hardware store. You want to make a statement about Mindless Consumerism? Union Square, a bastion of Tiffany’s and Sak’s and Prada and Burberry’s, seems like a more likely target. Maybe the traffic down there was too fierce.
Which also brings up the point, cruising around in your car, protesting? Really? Isn’t one of the complimentary concerns of the Occupy movement a sensitivity to environmental degradation?
Here’s what I would prefer to occupy.