In Which We Miss the Good Old Days


Today is Mardi Gras. Once again, it has come and gone without me. There was a wonderful time when I would have been deep, deep in the middle of it. I was young, impoverished, and slutty; it was the perfect match.

If you’re in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, you can spend thousands of dollars on your costume, carefully plan out the day, and have a pretty great time. Or if you’re like me, you can staple together whatever rags you found around your house, hurl yourself out into the middle of the madness, and wind up letting Mr. $1,000 Costume suck your dick. It would also be a great time, maybe even a better one. I certainly liked it.

The first Mardi Gras lived in New Orleans, I scraped up a piece of cardboard and some elastic and made what I adamantly claimed was a mask that was supposed to be a flamingo beak. Amazingly, I wound up on a balcony in the Pontalba apartments, the absolute fanciest housing you could have in the French Quarter. I had started off the morning with a rather generous dose of LSD, but the friends I was with on that balcony had not imbibed anything stronger than a few dozen beers. One of them was absolutely convinced I was going to jump off the balcony. I was both loaded and baffled, I had made no indication that I thought launching myself out into Jackson Square that way would have been amusing. She was dressed up as a pregnant nun so maybe her costume was influencing her thoughts.

I’ll never stop being glad that time of my life was so serendipitously the right queer in the right place at the right time. I’m also glad that of all the blindingly stupid choices I made then, none ever included jumping off a balcony in a flamingo beak mask.

boys with whom I’d like to let the good times roll.

Peek a boo, I see you.

This guy again. Because whenever this picture pops up in my Tumblr feed, I post it here. It’s a tradition.

I used to see this guy around here quite a bit, one memorable time in the YMCA steam room.

Daddy can’t decide whether to spank you or fuck you. I say why not both?

Whereas this daddy has decided to go straight to the “fuck you” portion of the evening.

I just love a generous foreskin.

Speaking of generous….

You don’t have to be pretty.

In Which We Celebrate the Holy Days


As a long time civil servant, federal holidays hold a very special place in my heart. A day when I get paid to not show up at the office? Fuck yeah, sign me up. This year, February 21 is one of my favorites, George Washington’s Birthday. Plenty of people refer to it as President’s Day, and there’s sort of an urban myth that it celebrates both Washington and Lincoln’s birthdays. Wrong. It is officially George Washington’s Birthday and that’s that.

Some state holidays actually do fold the two birthdays together and then others lump all the presidents into one big glamorous festival, but aside from everybody agreeing that the date should be the third Monday of February, the holidays are all over the map. That also accounts for why the name with its wandering apostrophe is never consistent (president’s, presidents’, and presidents are all in the running.) If we can’t agree on the name of a day to fuck off, it’s no wonder we can’t pass an amendment to get rid of the stupid electoral college.

When I first started working at SBA, there were still a few dinosaurs around who felt passionately about the name of the holiday being referred to correctly as George Washington’s Birthday. Fortunately they all died. But just as I escaped from their annual griping tournament, I wound up writing press releases and had to always call the stupid holiday by its real name. I would slip in some weasel language like “…also known as Presidents’ Day…” and wonder if getting the day off was actually worth all the trouble.

Also, I had an odd schedule which wound up giving me an extra day off every two weeks. In the winter, federal holidays are thick on the ground and starting with Veterans Day, in mid November, I was able to combine my weird schedule along with all the holidays to work nothing but 4-day weeks until George Washington’s birthday wrapped up my spree which made the day sort of bitter-sweet. But it wasn’t just me and my dedication to doing as little as possible; I believe most federal employees regard Washington’s birthday with no little regret. It is the last of the long run of days off, Veterans Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, MLK. More than one a month. And then, boom, it’s over, only four more holidays stingily spread out over 8 months. Wage slavery, that’s what it is.

Boys I want to spend some time with:


I like to think he’s looking up at the guy in the photo above.

My blog has featured this lovely young man before. I’m pretty sure it will happen again.

It’s 3:00 am while I’m posting this and listening to Talking Heads. Some things never change.

I just love them beefy boys.

Is it smut or is it art? You decide.

Frequent commenter and fellow traveler Mitzi mentioned in the last post that one of the lads looked a trifle “simple.” She was quite right and here is another one.

In Which We Play Dress Up


The evil algorithm fairy that lives in my phone decided to send me an article titled “What to wear in your ’60s.” It really should have been “What to wear in other people’s ’60s” because god knows it had nothing to do with how I dress. Apparently I’ve been working off the “What to wear in your loser sk8r dude phase” story.

The first point in the actual article was to tuck myself into a blazer. Whaaaaat? A blazer!?!? What a radical idea, what a sartorial insight. It’s not like I wore a fucking blazer every day of my working life, regardless of how crappy the job was, except when I was a waiter. Oh wait, Yes it absolutely was. And here I thought the restaurant life had no redeeming qualities. What function do I now deal with that needs a blazer? When I nip down to the bodega at the end of the block for chocolate milk and tortillas? When I want to impress the other old farts at Peet’s on my daily caffeine run?

The author’s brocade blazer paired with his lucky orange underwear.

I actually still have a blazer, it’s brown brocade and I found it at a thrift store with Diane von Austinburg. It has a sun faded stripe down one sleeve that I camouflaged by dabbing tea on it. Just another housekeeping how-to from mrpeenee.

Other tips in the article included corduroy pants (what century is this article from?,) “Gray or earth tones work well” I suppose because they go so well with my gray and earth tone complexion, as well as the bulletin that khaki pants are an option. It also assured me I could substitute a pullover vest for a jacket to create an “informal outfit.” Okay, they completely lost me there; I neither know nor want to know what a pullover vest might be.

The story did take the effort to explain that those of us in our ’60s would be working these looks “on the golf course or in the country club or dinner with friends….” Dinner with my cat would have been the closest I ever got to that description. If they wanted to clarify that this advice had nothing to do with me or my slovenly friends, they could have just said so.

Here’s mrpeenee’s Tips’nTricks for dressing as you totter towards the grave.

  1. You can only recycle a t-shirt out of the dirty clothes twice. Any more is asking a lot of the people sitting next to you on the bus.
  2. Just because you’re wearing a mask does not mean the fat girl in front of you in line can’t hear your comments about her fashion choices.
  3. Unfortunately, t-shirts expressing your support of women’s reproductive rights seem like they will always be in vogue.
  4. If it’s closing in on Valentine’s Day and you’re still wearing the jeans you had on at Christmas, you need to take a long hard look at your life choices.
  5. They’re pronounced tenny shoes, not sneakers and no one is amused by someone our age calling them “kicks.”
  6. You can no longer depend on last night’s trick leaving a baseball cap for you to cover your ball spot with. Just go buy one.
  7. If anyone at the gym wanted to see you naked, they would tell you.
  8. Jockey underwear should be a relic of your wild youth.
  9. Putting concealer on the bags under your eyes just makes you look like you have decided to start wearing silly putty.
  10. If you can’t decide what to wear, stay home with your cat and read.

Guys who don’t have to worry about what to wear:

Black panties are always flattering on a muscley young man.

As usual, Superbowl has taken me by surprise. Every year when it rolls around I think, vaguely, “Isn’t football over already?”

Put the PhotoShop down and back away from the naked guy.

When it comes to accessories, nothing beats a big dick.

I don’t know who this guy is, but he shows up a lot in my Tumblr feed and I’m always glad when he does.

The perfect fashion choice for a night at home.

For dinner at the country after a round of golf, a big dicked rent boy is always in style and will surprise your friends.

In Which We Play Favorites


Trying to decide my favorite book or movie or band or song or porn or food or cookie never really works out. The place of favorite is always too affected by my emotions or my age or my budget or how grumpy I’m feeling that day or what the Magic 8 Ball tells me. But my favorite art? Easy. I love abstract expressionist art.

Mark Rothko, my favorite artist in the world. In person, his paintings almost seem to shimmer.

I know from experience as soon as I say that someone will reflexively reply something along the lines of “I like a picture of a cow to look like a cow.” Congratulations, now go look at a picture of a cow. Abstract expressionism was definitely not about painting a cow. These artists were looking for a way to connect directly with the viewer without the baggage of symbolism and storytelling that figurative art was burdened with. They wanted these paintings to immediately evoke emotions without being filtered by the conscious mind.

Franz Kline. His work is so brutal and powerful. Also these pieces are enormous, like 8 feet tall.

Richard Diebenkorn, a California boy, which is unusual with these painters.

Surprise, I tricked you. This is not an abstract painting, it is an x-ray photo of the center of the Milky Way.

Boys who leave an impression:

I love the tiny little bit of a pink head peeking out there. Peek-a-boo!


I worry about boys walking around barefoot and baredick in all those stickers.

I used to have a pillow like that white and orange one behind him. Not that you’re looking behind him.

What is with the contrast between that sweet, sweet face and the lurid skull tattoo?

In Which We Add Art


I don’t have many objects that I’ve managed to hold on to throughout the wacky highjinks that are my adult life; it’s just too easy to lose track of stuff. Flotsam and jetsam, that’s what most material possessions come down to in the end. But through all these years, I have clung to a pair of lithograph reproductions of 19th century portraits.

The subjects are two demure ladies looking out from a horse-drawn world. Naturally I refer to them as “The Girls.” They are tasteful and attractive and utterly bland. The real appeal of the pair is actually the frames they sit in, gilded plaster over carved wood. I’ve always loved those frames and a while ago asked Super Agent Fred to crank out some original paintings to better fill them. I had actually forgotten my request when Fred popped up earlier this week with the completed artwork in tow.

I absolutely love them. They are Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe, a couple of 19th century American icons who probably don’t have much more in common than your 10th grade English class. But I’m very impressed with Fred’s new bold, clear graphic style with its strong lines and simplified imagery. I’m digging it.

In my blog about the massacre of the innocents that was the tree removal outside my building, my old chum Lifty from Chaturbate pointed out that while I had posted a couple of shots to show how bad the before looked, I had neglected to include an after photo to show what the tree slaughter resulted in. My apologies and here you go:

Lifty is a master artist of xmas decorating. He is also suspiciously lucky at a Chaturbate game where you roll dice by tipping a specific amount. I think I may have sort of maybe heard kind of that Lifty’s extraordinary luck with this game is the result of him being a dirty Cheater Cheater Bedbug Eater. But that’s just what I heard.

My dear, dear niece Amber reports in that she is on the mend from a nasty bout of Covid. I hope she is feeling much better and send her a bunch of nekkid cowboys, her favorites:

In Which We Clear out Dead Wood


In 1988 when R man and I landed here in San Francisco, the city had just finished spiffing up Market Street, the main downtown street that runs from the bay all the way up here to the Castro. Fancy new sidewalks, new signage, and new trees, sycamores.

Street trees do not have an easy life, pollution, sidewalks blocking the rain, and cars occasionally blamming into them, but sycamores, also known as plane trees, are very popular street trees because they can handle all that. They line boulevards in Paris and London and Rome as well as my granny’s front yard. That was the first place I ever smelled one, a lovely, very distinctive scent.

So I’m okay with sycamores.

Imagine my disappointment then, when I moved into this building and realized the trees in front of it were all dead. Dead, dead, dead, nothing more than big sticks. Worse than the aesthetics, dead trees blow over in storms and can seriously injure people, people like me. I wrote to the city to complain and apparently other people did too because they scheduled a number of meetings about removing them and then, 3 years ago, scheduled the actual axe work.

Ah but then, 2020 happened. Perhaps you remember 2020? The year that seemed like a decade and in which nothing happened? So cutting the trees down were one of those things that didn’t happen. Recently new signs popped up saying the period for commenting about the trees was reopened, which seemed to imply removing my little grove of zombie wood was less likely than ever. I became resigned to living with landscaping that looks like it was designed by the Wicked Witch of the West.

But then on Tuesday I was awakened by a hell of a racket. When I stumbled downstairs to see what was going on, a hard-hatted gang was busy ripping those bitches out. In less than 2 hours they had removed all of them, except for the two up at the corner. I have no idea why they stopped short there, the survivors are just as dead as the ones that got the ax. I’m just glad they cut what they did.

Hard wood:

Doesn’t the head of his dick look like somebody took a bite out of it? Ouch.

Does his mother know he borrowed her razor?

Peek a boo, I see you.

Why so glum, chum?

In Which We Are a Little Lightheaded


I’ve lived in San Francisco for 33 years now, half my life. And still, occasionally I am struck by the beauty of the light here. It’s crystal clear and bright and weightless, if weight makes any sense when you’re talking about light. The shadows it casts are so crisp they look like they’ve been painted. Some days the sky is so unlimitedly blue, it’s like a peak at infinity.

There’s plenty of theories about why the light is like that, most of them crackpot. One of them involves ice crystals way up in the air refracting the light. That seems almost poetic, but aren’t there ice crystals way up in the air everywhere? Others revolve around geography, the fact that we’re perched on the edge of the Pacific somehow means the sunlight is, I don’t know, washed? Like I said, crackpot.

The last couple of weeks have been gray and rainy and cold, classic winter weather. I’m not complaining, I like the change and it’s nice sometimes to have temperatures that make sweaters so appealing. Plus we’ve been living in a drought for years and every rainstorm is something to be relished. But yesterday was a break in that weather pattern and that’s something to be relished too.

I just found out my beloved Peet’s Cafe, to which I retire every day for lattes and avoiding eye contact, is going to close 3 hours early tomorrow because they don’t have enough staff to stay open. I’ve been hearing about this kind of labor shortage and I was sympathetic with the workers until it actually affected me directly, of course. Fucking slackers, get back to work. This is my definition of an crisis. They shrugged off my suggestion that they contact the National Guard. I’m not surprised; plenty of my best suggestions go wasted just because of a lack of vision.

I have to go set up my bunker.

Guys with whom I wouldn’t mind hunkering down.

I remember that dresser form 1994, the dick is unfamiliar, however.

Sometimes, shaving or waxing or whatever the hell is going on here, is so unfortunate.

Black bedrooms are always a good idea, I don’t care if you’re a vampire or not.

The wrought iron pattern on the balcony rail is called a “guilloche.” The more you know.

Give him the ol’ one two.

In Which We Consider What mrpeenee Thinks About


Can you take me to Galveston?

Wandering around the enormous wasteland that is the internet, I often come across ephemera that seems to fit into some nook in my warped little consciousness, not all of which include naked young men. Here’s some of my recent favorites.

Road Warriors, mulitiple

But House on Pooh Corner should have resulted in immediate crucifixion.

“Nice ass”

I have to explain this ALL THE TIME.

“…so then I said to her, I said, look….”

And now, a two-parter very dear to my slightly dyslexic heart

And also, of course, naked guys:

In Which We Gain One More Goddam New Year


mrpeenee’s chums, Hot Foot, Drum Stick, and Secret Agent Fred (often collectively known as The Children) have apparently caught on to mrpeenee’s less than charming habit of agreeing to social obligations and then ducking out 20 minutes before them with a pathetic text along the lines of “sorry, can’t make it. The bed won again.” Many years ago I sent Diane von Austinburg a haiku I had written that went like this:

It’s a cold hard world

but my bed is soft and warm

You call that a choice?

Diane replied that all my haikus somehow involve my bed.

Anyway, now that the children are on to me and know that I can’t be trusted, they’ve changed tactics and simply announce they’re coming over and we’re going to hang out on the roof deck. I suppose I could just not answer the door; the guys would probably be stymied with that, but I have no doubt Hot Foot, as indomitable as a force of nature, would simply kick in the door and drag me out of my bed and force me to have a good time.

And so that’s how I wound up spending New Year’s Day on my roof deck reveling in the lovely San Francisco afternoon, grazing on snacks, and not drinking champagne because I can’t drink alcohol anymore, thank you fucking restless leg syndrome. We hung out for 3 hours, yakking. It was the only sunny day we’ve had in a couple of weeks and it was absolutely toasty. So thank you to my friends for dragging me kicking and screaming into an amusing introduction to 2022.

I know most people have been talking shit about 2021, but really, compared to 2020, it was pretty much a peach of a year. It was the year I found out I’m okay with lockdown, as long as they let me go to Peet’s Cafe every day (which I suppose is really just lockdown lite) because avoiding the riff and the raff of the general populace is fine with me. If I have to be an old man haunted by restless leg syndrome and disappearing eyebrows, at least I can happily be a curmudgeon.

New Year nudes:

At least I don’t wind up on the floor during the party anymore.

The Uncarorled Christmas


Every year about this time, mrpeenee takes to the blog waves to complain about Christmas music. Not really complaining so much as loudly whining. “The enforced, albeit fake, good cheer…”, “The ludicrous prostitution of otherwise admirable musicians like Ella Fitzgerald and David Bowie…”, “GET OUT OF MY EARS…” Blah blah blah, you’ve heard it all before, it’s pretty much the sole content of mrpeenee’s Greatest Hits. That and my insistence that pornstars used to be much better looking.

Anyway, this year you’ll be spared my grouching because, for some unknown reason, this year I have been spared Christmas carols. That’s right, not a single drummer boy has crossed my path so far. It’s possible it’s because I have edited down my excursions to nothing more than my daily outing to Peet’s, my cafe of choice. In years past even that wasn’t safe since Peet’s would attempt to cover all bases by playing odd versions of Christmas music: Jazz and multi-ethnic and novelty choons. I have to assume that just annoys everyone equally, maybe that was their goal. But who actually would be longing for a Jamaican cover of “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In?”

Anyway, all I have to do is make it to a week from Saturday (this must be the time for my annual admission that, because of some odd holiday dyslexia thing, I can never remember the date of Christmas. Every year I have to look it up, often repeatedly. I have it nailed down to something like December 24, 25, or 26, but that’s as close as I can come. I just looked it up AGAIN and, spoiler alert, it’s December 25.) So, a week from Saturday. No matter how much jingle bells they manage to stuff in by then, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to tough it out.

Wise men with whom I wish I was in the stable.


It’s all about the dimples

And now, for our salute to photoshopping: