Take Time for Cake Time


This is live reporting of me baking, coming to you hot from my kitchen. The screams are from some crazed street guy outside sharing his demons with the world. Because that’s what life in America’s most expensive city is like.

First step is to go take a little lie down while the oven heats up. It’s important to conserve your energy. Also Doritos, so I don’t perish from hunger.

it’s a bundt cake so I’m making it in a bundt pan. Duh. What makes it a bunt pan is all the flutes and ridges and creases that make for such a lovely cake, but which are a bitch to butter and flour. My solution? A vinyl glove, some soft butter and go to town.

Step two is to pick tunes for the evening. It’s critical to keep your spirits up. YouTube music algorithm has offered me Pink Floyd’s comfortably numb, which just shows how nailed down that algorithm has me. It’s one of my favorite songs ever, a jolly little tune about madness and dealing with psychosis with one of the world’s great guitar solos in the middle. Realizing they have me on the hook, YouTube is now serving up the rest of the Wish You Were Here album. It would be a dark and sad universe where I would protest listening to Pink Floyd.

If you don’t sift the ingredients are you really even baking? Now we combine the liquid ingredients. YouTube has now moved past old Allman Brothers (all right with me) and on to Dark Side of the Moon. Is there a more perfect album? No, no there is not.

as I put the cake in the oven, removed onto 90s disco, this algorithm seems to be sort of psychic. It would be more alarming, but I like the music. We’re listening to a song I haven’t heard in 30 years and still like it. Oh my god, not En Vogue. Who invited them?

Worth the effort.

Zack Johnathan, silky skine that needs my close attention.

The beefy Aaron Mount. Now we’re listening to Everything But the Girl. Everything But the Girl? It’s a fucking time warp up in here.

Oh my gosh, Madonna, Vogue, and that big ol’ pile of Italian muscle Gianfranco Volti. What a combo

Beauty is where you find, not just where you grind it. But the two are not always mutally exclusive.

Nose News


While I was all too aware of my father’s many weaknesses, he did have a number of physical traits I wouldn’t have minded inheriting, but which passed me completely by. Smooth, clear, dark olive skin that had no trouble tanning and thick, lustrous hair that refused to recede and which didn’t even start turning gray until he was in his ’70s; did I get any of that good stuff? Oh no. But sinuses that run year-round down the backs of our throats? That, I got. And I got it in spades.

My brother Ed and I sympathize with each other about this snot gene. I believe my grandmother had it too and dealt with it with a series of delicate lady-like coughs, ahem. This constant trickle down my throat is annoying year round, but when allergies descend, it turns maddening.

So I took my snotty self on off to an ENT doctor. He listened and looked and stuck some intrusive instruments up my nose and then declared that I have acid reflux.

What? It was like taking your broken arm in and being told you have the mumps. Maybe, but what do the two have to do with each other? He claimed he made this diagnosis pretty much every day. I don’t know if that means it’s common or if he just likes the diagnosis. Apparently, the irritation of your esophagus is what makes you cough. He swore there was nothing unusual about my nose or sinuses.

Of course this means more trips to more doctors including an endoscopy and an allergy test. It’s simply more evidence that my body parts are conspiring against me.

Men I would like to introduce to my body parts:

Guys this week are vintage meat, mostly from Colt Studios glory days of the 80s and 90s and Kristen Bjorn Studio from the same era. I’m just a sentimental fool. This is J. D. Amos

The massive Pete Kuzak.

The unnecessarily beautiful Doug Perry. Be still my heart.

Here we have Max Venziano batting for the Kristen Bjorn boys.

Lastly, one of my all time favorites, Robert Machado.

In Which We Enjoy that von Austiburg Woman’s Visit


Our old chum, Diane von Austinburg, is visiting this weekend and what a charming visit it has already turned out to be. Chief among Diane’s many, many charms is her willingness to listen to my rambling blather. Topics so far have included my rugs and the lunatic who washes them for me, the lunatic out on the street earlier this week who was attempting to turn a dumpster into a percussion instrument, the lunatics who hang out at Peet’s Cafe almost as much as I do, and whatever other lunatics happen across my wandering attention span.

Our times together always focus largely on eating. We’re both good cooks and San Francisco is stuffed with great restaurants and our culinary adventures have been rousingly successful. We also launched ourselves into the art world with an exhibit which was considerably less successful.

It was called Van Gogh Immersive, a rather grandiose title for what turned out to be nothing but a large scale slideshow. They took slides of various Van Gogh pieces and projected them onto the walls of a very large room. Some elements of each picture would then move, cherry blossoms blew off of a limb and then would land on another one, or tables would vibrate, or the sun would slowly spin. It was most underwhelming. Diane pointed out the reproductions lacked all of the texture that is such an important part of his work and the beautiful, brilliant colors he used were all faded and dulled out by the slide projectors.

But then we came home and made a fabulous goat cheese and asparagus tart. When art lets you down, there’s always puff pastry to fall back on. Diane is such a wonderful guest; we can share a kitchen, which is not easy to do, and then reminisce about long gone hijinks from when we were so very full of ourselves and not terribly smart. It’s a delight to have a friend who still remembers a time when I was young, someone I don’t have to explain the past to because we shared it, and someone not interested in judging me.

Guys I wouldn’t mind being a host to,


Maybe I’m ready for a nap.


I let Diane pick naked guys this week and she came up this fine fellow.

And this one.

Another Year Older


Oops, oops, I have once again forgotten my own anniversary. July the something (I’m too lazy to look it up) 2007 was my blog’s first post, so yay for me. Among bloggers, 14 is a ripe old age, an antique, in fact. When I first started airing my dirty laundry, there was quite a little gang of fellow bloggers to keep me company. Their number has withered away, it’s true, but I still remember them fondly. Perverts, most of them, but amusing perverts.

My blog’s musty old age is not a testament to any particular stick-to-itness on my part. All of my storytelling tends to wander quite a bit (maybe you noticed? Shut up.) and I think I started some damn story all those years ago and have just never finished.

So let’s raise a toast to mrpeenee, god love him. Here’s to never getting to the point.

If I were to get anniversary presents (it’s not too late,) I would hope this might serve as an inspiration.

Big, hard, and thoughtful. What could be better?

“I’m workin on a man/with blonde hair and a tan,” Dr. Frank N. Furter.

I’ve seen that look before. It’s always trouble.

Flag Ship


Gay Pride came and went last month, perhaps you noticed? The enormous parade and celebration at its end here had to be canceled because of Covid, but that didn’t stop a sizable wave of tourist descending on us. Not canceled was one of my favorite elements of the whole hoohah, the little banners flapping from all the streetlight poles the length of Market Street, the main street of San Francisco.

They’re very pretty and certainly add a festive note to the street, but the best thing about them is that they just pop up. Even after all these years, they never fail to surprise me. One morning, they just appear, installed overnight apparently by busy little elves. Or I suppose fairies would be more appropriate.

Also under the heading of “gay banners,” or possibly “fag flags,” we have the leather / s&m flags. There’s always been a lot of overlap between the two communities and so it makes sense that they share a flag.

Queer leather / S&M. It’s black and blue, get it? Get it? Oh, never mind.

Thin Blue Line bullshit icon.

What I find so amusing is that these flags of a decidedly deviant sexual gang are very similar to the ones of the police-positive, borderline white supremacist thin blue line ones. I think it’s hilarious that these pea brain, police brutality apologists not only share the basic design of a gay banner, but that of a freaky sex gay banner.

“Excuse me, are you showing support for police, opposition to the Black Lives Matter movement, or do you just want to get your ass whipped and stuffed by some guy in a pair of chaps?”

Gentleman letting their freak flag fly:

I like your hat.

Affordable rates by the hour available.

Love that satin-y skin.

I used to know this guy’s porn name, but it slips my mind.

Speaking of S&M, there’s always the popular boxer fantasy for you.

You know what this guy smells like.

I like your hat, too.

In Which We Say Goodbye to a Dear Little Buddy


There’s nothing as satisfying as the weight of a cat curled up on your lap while you sit reading Barbara Pym for the bazillionth time. It’s just the right amount and it emphasizes how cozy the moment is in a cold, hard world.

I was thinking about that yesterday afternoon. Saki was settled in my lap on top of the blanket he claimed years ago. It was a position he and I perfected long before all the odd times of the last decade. The very sweet vet who had come over to my place gave him three injections, 10 minutes apart (morphine, valium, and ketamine, I thought about asking for some of that good stuff, but I was distracted) and Saki got loaded, fell asleep, and just drifted off. That’s how I want to go.

I was very sad that day, but actually, the hardest part was resigning myself to it and then scheduling the euthanasia. Just saying the words on the phone to the receptionist was almost impossible. But he had stopped eating 4 weeks ago. It became obvious the choice was putting him to sleep or watching him starve to death.

Even now I expect to see him somewhere, like he’s been taking one of his naps and wandered back in to see what I was doing. I’ll see something out of the corner of my eye and for second think that it’s him.

Anyway. This end, regardless of how easy or painful it is, is always obvious in the beginning when you take on a pet. The chances of outliving them are very small and you have to know that this is coming. So let’s all take a moment to remember all the ridiculous cats and dogs that have been in our lives and made them better for the time they shared with us.

You Google the phrase “naked guy with cat” and you get some pretty amazing results. To wit:

I know, not naked, but too cute to ignore.

Hard to believe, but the kitten is even cuter than the lanky, doe-eyed beauty

If you haven’t done this with your cat, are you really trying?

“put me down RIGHT THIS MINUTE, or you’ll be sorry”

Not one, but TWO oozy woozums.

I know, not naked again, but the cat is Saki’s double.

Can you pick out the kitten?

Surely if your Grindr profile just read “I have glasses and a cat,” the internet would melt.

Oh, keeses. Many, many keeses.

I think anyone who’s ever lived with a cat recognizes this classic pose of a squirming cat in one hand and something you don’t want to spill in the other and know that tragedy is eminent.

I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see this man naked. The I’m including the picture is the story that went with it which was about a cop who rescued a kitten, much adorbs, and which described said cop as 28 years old. Not to be bitchy, for once, but does this guy look 28? Is that in dog years?

In Which We Are Sad


Well. Well well. Saki has cancer. He’s had a bad cough for the last month, but I convinced myself it was allergies, god knows everybody else has them. Lately though, he is lost a tremendous amount of weight and had become withdrawn and lethargic. Finally, last week he stopped eating altogether, so I surrendered and took him to the vet.

Tests, x-rays, antibiotics; she called yesterday with the bad news. When I took him in, I told her I was not interested in any treatments if it turned out to be cancer. I know my decision was very strongly colored by my experience going through treatments like that with R Man the two times he had cancer. Seeing how miserable he was then was bad enough.

Also, years ago, in regard to our last cat, the very beloved and saintly Maggie, R Man and I had agreed aggressive or extreme medical treatments on an animal is frequently unwarranted. Saki would have no idea why I suddenly decided to start torturing him on the regular or why he felt so wretched. I have the ability to protect him from that, so I will. Saki has had feline leukemia for as long as we’ve had him, so with his immune system weakened by that, I’m not even sure he would survive the treatments.

The vet offered surgery to see just what kind of cancer it was, but that’s only important for determining what treatment to use against it. Since I’m not going down that road, I decided to spare him at least the stress and discomfort of the surgery. As the vet said, we’re in hospice care now.

I guess the only bright spot around here these days is the antibiotics have been really successful already. He’s perked up and is actually eating, which is encouraging. I’m mostly just carrying him around while I rub his face, which is his favorite thing next to sleeping in the sun and we have plenty of that. So he’s happy and I’m resigned. One day at a time, that’s all you get.

Naked guys, even in the most difficult times, they’re there for you.

Beautifully hairy

I incorrectly claimed last Sunday was Gay Pride; it’s actually June 27. Our apologies.

What would June be without the serendipitous collision of Gay Pride and Father’s Day?

Dreamboat Eric Rio, a long time favorite here at mrpeenee, Inc.

Insert stupid “hard at work” joke here.

Insert stupid “to boldly go where no man has gone before” joke here.

Gay Pride of course requires the obligatory Village People YMCA salute.

One last daddy for the road.

The End is Nigh


I’m going to publish this post in two parts: the first, tonight, to commemorate the end of the CDC’s Covid-19 pandemic restrictions, and the second, tomorrow night, to see if the day has brought any radical changes.

I think a lot of people have been looking forward to June 15 as a kind of watershed; I know I have. It’s just that I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking forward to. Since the CDC said you don’t need to wear masks outdoors, the only times I’ve masked up have been my daily trips to Peet’s Cafe. I put on my mask at their front door to walk to the back and pick up my order, and then take it off as soon as I sit down. It’s hardly oppressive.

I also will wear it here in my apartment building, but only when someone else is at hand. Most often they too will usually scurry to put on their mask and we both apologize. It’s simply theater now, with each other as our audience. San Francisco has a greater than 80% vaccination rate, including me; the tiny, tiny chance that I will become infected and then interact with someone who has not been able to get vaccinated or who refuses to is not realistically probable. By now we’re all just putting on our masks as a matter of politeness rather than preventing disease.

So we’ll see what happens tomorrow. I think more than anything else it will simply be a marker that we have come through this finally. I know the pandemic is not over and done, but I’ve been longing to reach this point since March of 2020. We all deserve to feel relieved.

Well that was a whole bunch of not very much.

Again, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting; there isn’t really anything that’s been imposed on me that I wanted out from under, or forbidden that I was eager to snatch up. I haven’t been wearing a mask outside for a couple of weeks. My plan was to glare at anyone who was still wearing one, but I forgot. And there were plenty of people still masking on the sidewalk. Like less than half, more than a third. Call it 42 percent. Maybe 42.5.

Most notable was the re-emergence of tourists. At least I think they’re tourist; people shambling along aimlessly while they stare in at each storefront as if they were hoping that would be the San Francisco Gay Ride they were hoping for.

Since it’s June, even with Pride canceled, there’s still the annual uptick in same-sex couples walking along hand in hand. Oh, it’s so sweet, I can barely stand it. Confirmed bachelors and Sapphic sisters towing one another down the street. I know there are plenty of places where that would not only be uncomfortable, but even possibly dangerous, so I do not begrudge them that simple pleasure. Just get out of my way, I’m late for my chiropractor.

Anyway here’s the report: we seem to have made it through, so yay for us. I know high minded folk are scolding that we have learned nothing from this long difficult time. And maybe we haven’t, but I remember when R Man was dying and I kept thinking “I wish I could get back to my old life,” because there’s a sweetness to your day-to-day life and sometimes savoring it is not a bad idea.

Guys worth a wait:

In Which We Are Conditioned


Woo hoo, I bought an air conditioner, the kind that just sits in the middle of the room like a dorky guest and not the kind of hangs out the window like god intended. It may not seem like a radical step, but San Francisco exists in a temperature bubble of rarely lower than 50° or higher than 75° (10° and 23° for the celsius-minded among us) so conditioned air is just not a necessity for us. R Man and I had lived here several months before I looked around the apartment and demanded, suspiciously, “Where’s the air conditioner?” There wasn’t one and the possibility of living without it verged on insanity to my little Gulf Coast bred mind.

But…. But the last couple of years, September, the time of San Francisco’s true summer, rolled around with temperatures in the 90s and sometimes even over a hundred. Everyone in town was sweaty and outraged. I decided then that returning to the air conditioned habits of my youth was just something I needed to resign myself to.

So now I have an air conditioner, I just need to figure out where to put it. The only problem with living a well-appointed life like mine, is that when I get a new addition, such as an air conditioner that’s about as big as a large-ish laundry hamper, I have to make room for it by jettisoning something else. In this case, I’m getting rid of two wicker trunks full of photographs.

Because I want to keep some record of the happy life I lived with R MAN, I’m editing them down based on the criteria that if the picture doesn’t have anyone in it, it’s gone, outta here. I’ve barely scratched the surface and already have a huge pile to throw away and a very small pile to keep. A trip to Paris, friends from New Orleans visiting, our first apartment in San Francisco; so many pictures, so few good ones.

Picturesque guys:

Daddy, cause isn’t Father’s Day coming up soon?

The guy who causes all that hubbub down at the gym showers.

I do hope he’s happy being a bottom.

She works hard for the money.

Meanwhile, back at the gym.

In Which We Support the Arts


So I bought a painting. I like it very much, the crisp lines, the appealing colors, I just think it has a casual charm.

The artist says it’s called Wave; I suppose it’s from the Excessively Obvious school. He’s a very nice guy I met on the street this afternoon while he was touching up some of his graffiti, graffiti which covers lots of the plywood put up along Market Street storefronts when the BLM protests were happening. The protests are gone but the plywood lives on now as a canvas for Brett. He wouldn’t tell me his last name, which is pretty understandable, I guess, since what he’s doing is not excessively legal.


Brett’s work inhabits the intersection of a personal Venn diagram of mine. For one thing I have admired the graffiti for a while and had considered writing a blog post about all of it. It’s just one of the many ideas I have for post that I never got around to. I got lots of ’em.

The other part of the diagram is just one of those serendipitous charms of living in a small town. A few years ago Super Agent Fred and I were noodling down Castro Street when we saw some guy with his paintings spread out on the sidewalk trying to sell them. I announced to Fred that I was going to buy one when we returned, but by the time we got back the guy was gone. I now know the artist was Brett.

I have regretted not being more on my toes about snagging that picture. I never connected the long-lost painting with the graffiti I so admired, but after I complimented Brett on his graffiti work, he offered to show me a couple of pieces he had in his car. As soon as I saw them I realized they were from the same hand as the works I had missed out on and made up for dithering and losing previously by buying the painting right then.

I am so grateful to fate for putting Brett and his paintings back in my path. And so now I am an art patron, a regular fucking Medici.

Guys who are works of art:

I have such a weakness for pretty boys.


Like Depeche Mode says “Words are very unnecessary”

When I first saw this, I really hoped those Hello Kitties were tattoos, but much closer examination proves gthem to be just stickers. How cruelly disappointing.

I adore Speedos that show a bit o’ crack.

What a little sweetie.