Category Archives: television

Pancakes and Rain and Smacking Fred in the Head


I know I’m always yammering about how balmy (and fucking expensive) life in San Francisco is, but even here, winter visits occasionally.  Like today, gray, drizzling, the kind of dank cold that settles into your every nook as soon as you set foot out the door.  Of course, when I feel the urge to whine about our winter, I remember Mistress Infomaniac trapped up in the tundra of Canadia, battling caribou just to get a goddam coffee, eking a living as a professional seal blubber gatherer, and I have to count my blessings.

Like going out for delicious pancakes and sausage for breakfast in a cozy cafe with humpy waiters.  Since I tend to go to sleep at dawn, breakfast is a rare treat for me, but today I couldn’t get to sleep so I battled my way through the clammy chill and wound up with my favorite, lemon pancakes with marion berry sauce.  Because it’s San Francisco and we’re all fancy and stuff.  originally, the waiter appeared with French toast and when I demurred, he corrected his mistake by reaching over to the table behind me to pick up my pancakes from them and give them their French toast.  Which leads one to wonder, why hadn’t they said something when a large plate of pancakes appeared before them?  Do they not know what French toast looks like?  Were they simply blinded by the waiter’s massive chest muscles? The waiter (and his big round titties) assured me they had not spit on the pancakes, so I tucked in.

Anyway, tasty.

I came home, made a pot of stew, puttered around, never could get to sleep until about 9:00 this evening, almost exactly one hour before a thoroughly drunken Super Agent Fred decided to rock out downstairs with the worst music ever recorded.  Dylan.  The Association.  Gary Puckett and the Union Gap.   God knows why, his tastes are eclectic to the point of random.  I went downstairs, threatened to hit him in the head with gong mallet (it’s padded, OK?) and then did because he turned the volumeback up.  Sometmes beating your child is the only answer.

Speaking of abusive realtionships, have you seen Good Behaviour?  It’s fabulous.  It stars Michele Dockery, late of Downton Abbey’s Lady Mary, as a white trash crackhead grifter who hooks up with the astonishingly hot Juan Diego Botto who is by turn both sexy and menacing.  The banter is very tight and amusing, but not brittle and Dockery is great.  Thumbs up.  Go watch it.


Botta.  Mmmmmm.  Botta

One Simply Must Boogie Down


In the midst of all the sad brouhaha over David Bowie’s passing, I ran across a mention someone made of the great show he did on Midnight Special.  I’m not including the video of it here because everyone else is already covering Bowie better than I ever could (if you do feel like trotting over to youtube to catch a peek, I’ll wait for you.  It really is quite something, in a loose, sloppy sort of way and shows Mister Bowie as a master of shiny peach blush.)

Mostly, I was amazed that Bowie had graced the show with his genius. If it had ever crossed my mind, I  think I would have classified Midnight Special as simply a disco phenomenon, but a quick peek at our old friend Wikipedia assures us they highlighted everyone from Tom Petty to the New York Dolls to Fleetwood Mac to Dolly Parton.  The list of guests is most impressive; apparently anyone who could stand up long enough to grab onto a mic was on it, LIVE.

As I remember it, the show was simply something you turned to on Friday nights when you were already too loaded to leave the house.  There you would be, stoned stupid, hoping for something toe-tapping only to be confronted with the Magic of Helen Reddy.

Here’s a little something that’s much more memorable.  Ish.  A sort of affordable version of the Jackson Family called the Sylvers and their deathless anthem Boogie Fever.

Now isn’t that better?  Footwork that defines the term “tight,” mauve velour, and a bass line serving up funk you could eat with a spoon.  My favorite is the drummer, with a blase look that explains more clearly than words that he is immune to said fever, and yet performing as flawlessly as a metronome.

Because Viking Booty, That’s Why


I haven’t posted anything about True Blood this year because either a) you’ve been watching it and already know what tragic hash it has degenerated into or b) you’re not watching it and don’t care.   I think both camps will be satisfied with a report that Alex Skarsgard answers the universe’s booty call by appearing naked on a chaise atop a glacier in Sweden.   And then bursts into flames.

Why?  Who the fuck knows?  It’s True Blood.  Gibberish happens.  More importantly, let me repeat, Alex Skarsgard, naked.  What more do you need?

In Which mrpeenee Fixes Television


So the rumor that I am unable to pay attention is totally false; I just don’t like to.  For instance, I have, for quite a little while, known that this is the 21st century.  I know this because people keep yammering the same old chestnut about “It’s the 21st century, where is my flying car?”  Yaddayaddayadda.  Listen, right now you are plenty likely to be rear ended by an old hippie paying too much attention to her audio book of L. Ron Hubbard’s wit and wisdom and when that happens you trade insurance info and fend off her attempts to talk you into a “personality test” and drive away.  In a flying car, you plunge to a fiery death.  That’s an improvement?

I do not want the techno nerds wasting time on death trap flying cars.  I want them to get off the dime and produce a sexbot.  It’s already 2013, for christ sake’s.  (It is, isn’t it?)  The question should be “Where is my lifelike android who will perform unspeakable acts and then go wash itself off?”

You know the first few iterations are going to all be Daryl Hannah from Blade Runner, cause these R&D guys are serious Big Bang type geeks.

Even when they finally get their hands out of their laps and turn their attention to running up a male version, it’ll probably be Data from Star Trek.

That’s just how they think.

Will they ever realize the marketing value of Mario Lopez’s pussy?  I doubt it.

In fact, I have been waiting so long for my Genuine Mario Lopez Sex Toy Android, with the patented Love Grip, that I have now moved on to a new focus.  I want a Theo James doll.   With the patented Love Grip.

Perhaps you know of Mr. James.  He was the ill fated Turkish ambassador in Downton Abbey‘s first episode.  He has resurfaced on the television this week with a new show called Golden Boy.  Tragically, it is stink-eee.  He’s the latest in a long, long line of kind of generic brooding alpha male cops with a troubled past.  Again, yaddayaddayadda.

The problem is Theo sweetie is so darn pretty his looks swamp his character.  He launches his broody cop thang and all you think is “Wow look at those lips.”  You can’t fight cheekbones like that.

I say go with the flow and write some show appropriate to his beauty.  Here’s my pitch:  sensitive, but troubled Brian Scott (or Scott Brian,  I’m working on the details, ok?)  attempts to deal with his traumatic past (cue arty flashbacks) by leading a Double Life: by day, an underwear supermodel, by night, I don’t know, something.  What difference does it make?   Spy, or cop or serial killer, who cares as long as most of the show features lengthy photo shoots of Theo in his panties looking all pouty and bulgy and stuff.

I know, at night he can be a sexbot.  With the patented Love Grip.

In Which mrpeene Catches up With the Rest of TV Land


It’s true, I have avoided the siren lure of Downton Abbey.  It premiered right in the middle of the very dark days of R Man’s death and, oddly, I was not up to the thrills of Edwardian Yorkshire society.  Of course that couldn’t last; how could a man who’s read and re-read all of E.F. Benson resist the Dowager Countess?

Over the last couple of nights I have given myself over to a marathon of all 16 episodes, sort of an orgy of tea and turbans.  I love it, just like everyone said, but I think that may have been part of my reluctance to dive in after missing it originally.  Could it really be as archly amusing as reports had it?  Turns out, it is.

Even before watching it, I had a clear image of the whole thing being a sort of mash-up between Upstairs, Downstairs and Gosford Park, especially since Maggie Smith is pretty much the same character in both the Park and the Abbey.  And aren’t we all glad of it?  I know she can border on scenery chewing, but also, when she decides to crank up her guns, the old girl can be astonishingly devastating and effective.  It was the upcoming cage match between her and Shirley MacLaine that finally convinced me to get on board the Abbey train.

My only complaint: the luscious, luscious Theo James (who played the luscious, luscious Turkish attache) was killed off less than a whole episode into the madness.  That left the show with some pretty fine eye candy, but nothing of the stellar quality of Theo. 

Theo James was also the only good bit in some dreadful BBC sci-fi gibberish called Bedlam.

Still, come January when it returns, I’ll be there.  I already am sort of jonesing for that beautiful red velvet couch in the library.

Blood Wrap


 So perhaps you’re wondering what happened on the last episode of True Blood for this year?

Alcide Herveaux is still God’s gift to, oh, I don’t know, everybody.

Better. Than. Porn.

Bill Compton went from being a prissy noble pussy to being dead.  Tragically he didn’t stay that way.

Jason Stackhouse is a dick, but one I would eat on a cracker.

Also,  Alcide Heveaux.  Damn.

The End.

Blood Sport


Can there be any doubt that it is, indeed, a wonderful time to be alive?  HBO’s series True Blood returns June 10.  I am a huge-ish fan, even though I am well aware of the show’s flaws, especially the luridly bad Southern accents plopping out of the cast’s mouths.  But you know what makes up for all that?

Alexander Skarsgård’s creamy, creamy creaminess

and Joe Manganiello’s man titties.

Now word reaches us that Christopher Meloni, who apparently exists mainly to make me tingly all up in my bits, will be joining the cast.  I suppose the quota of hot guy pussy was just not up to Executive Producer Alan Bell’s exacting standards.  To which I can only say, god love you, Alan Bell.



I am, apparently, the only gay man in the universe who despises the television so-called show Glee.   Hate. It.  I would prefer having Chlorox injected in my brain and the two times I have suffered my way though an entire episode, I have considered doing just that in order to erase the horror.

And yet, because I am of the internet world, I cannot escape it.  How humiliating that I have no idea who the Prime Minister of Japan is, but I know the weasely little white gay boy is boyfriends with the one in the bow tie.  A bow tie?

Through those same inescapable channels, word has reached me of a fabulous cover of Boogie Shoes on a recent episode by a tranny, who may or may not be a new character.  I couldn’t figure out from the bits I read if he’s a guest star or what and didn’t have the stomach to do any real research.  Let’s just leave it at a new-ish guy who likes to dress like a Lady.

And can sing!  Girl!  I think I may love him.  In fact, if they would line up all the other characters (except Jane Lynch) and shoot them so the show would consist of the new tranny guy and her, I would watch it.  I would also watch the show where they shot all the ones I don’t like, but then, I’m just petty like that.

And as the dear Princess commented on Infomaniac, I also HATE HATE HATE fucking Blogger’s new fucking lay out when I’m just trying to post my drivel.  Hate.

Television News


CSI star William Petersen in a tug’o’war over a bullwhip with dominatrix Lady Heather in some seriously slutty boots, cause that’s how the show rolls. What’s not to love?

Before last spring, I hardly ever watched television. I had my books, I had R man, I had the world of the blog; I seemed to not have time for it. Then after R Man died and I retired, I suddenly was enveloped by a universe of nothing but spare time. That, my sweet little potatoes, is the existence television was created for.

So I’m watching a lot of it now. Wait, did you think I was going to apologize? Forget it. I feel so very American. Mostly police procedural shows, where the characters are grim but with attractive haircuts and evil is dealt with properly. It is the direct descendent of film noir, writ small.
Having worked my way through Criminal Minds, Without a Trace, Cold Case and the many, many permutations of Law and Order, I am now fascinated by CSI, the one based in Las Vegas. I decided to be methodical in my attack on this long running war horse (it’s been on for 11 years) so instead of chewing it up in whatever random order cable reruns decided to offer it, I have been slogging through the DVDs of each season, usually seven or eight episodes each evening. An ongoing orgy. I am now up to Season Six.
This seems like the most effective way for me and it turns the whole experience into something like watching a very long, very slow moving movie. With lots and lots of fabulous aerial shots of Vegas. Never has a city I have no interest in looked so glam and lovely. Also, I have developed little crush on studly George Eads.

Absolutely, Totally Fabulous


I realize it’s sort of after the fact to be writing about Ab Fab’s return, but since I’ve just posted a paean to my own tardiness, I think I get a pass. I’m assuming we all sat ourselves down to revel in Absolutely Fabulous Sunday night, did we not? Certainly I did, even going so far as to avoid the leaked versions floating around the interweb earlier because it seemed more fitting to watch it on BBC with their amusing, slightly prissy commercials.

I had wondered how the girls might hold up after all this time; the answer, of course, was brilliantly. The episode might not have been as solid as some of the earlier ones, the misbehaviour not as honed, but it was still more insanely hilarious and irreverent than any thing else available on television.
An early stroke of genius: the prison gates swinging open to reveal not Pats as you expect, but Saffy. It takes familiarity with the show to understand why the vision of Saffy (Saffy!) in jail is funny, but if you have it, then the reward is a big laugh.
You have to respect the writers for not being lazy and leaning on that built-in knowledge that most of the audience brings with it. When Saffy demands to be brought up to date with what’s been happening while she was in the big house, a lesser show would have used the opportunity to role out a big block of exposition to bring us all up to speed with the characters’ back stories, but not Ab Fab. Instead, we get jokes about how big Fergie’s ass was at the royal wedding. And good jokes delivered as only Bubbles can.
Still, that familiarity was there, even without being written into the show. When Pats first entered, the audience spontaneously applauded. Hell, I applauded. There was just such a sense of pleasure at having them back.
Here’s what I came to realize during Sunday night’s show: Patsy is my favorite. Eddy gets the best lines. Bubbles is the funniest, Saffy the most cutting and Mother the most sly, but Eurydice Colette Clytemnestra Dido Bathsheba Rabelais Patricia Cocteau Stone is my favorite. I think it’s her absolute refusal to let go of the 1980’s. Right on sister.