Tag Archives: beefcake

The Struggle is Real

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My goal since resigning myself to moving out so the realtor could stage my house (and hopefully rid it of the stinky cat stink) has been “do one thing a night.”  And I have.  I truly have.  I organized, relocated and off loaded my massive porn collection.  I got the gutter fixed, which has been broken for more than 2 years.  My solution was to place a washtub under the place where the painter leaned their ladder and created a new, and unexpected, fount in the middle of the gutter.  During the rains the water pouring from he break into the tub sounded like a charming fountain.  I was very fond of it, but my realtor took a more dim view of it and so now it’s repaired and during the last few rainy nights, I have missed it.

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Anyway, I have cleaned up and patched and replaced and removed all kinds of little things that as a homeowner you just ignore, but as home seller, you need to deal with.

For instance, in July, my washing machine, god love it, finally died.  When we bought the house, 21 years ago, the seller insisted, in the contract, that we take the washing machine with the house.  In fact, it was the only stipulation she made.  It seemed odd, but we didn’t have a washer, so what the hell?  And the old warhorse has ground along all these years just fine until it just gave up in the middle of one load.  Super Agent Fred and I had to bail out the water and wring the clothes out and let them dry out on the patio draped over this and that.  Very Beverly Hillbillies.

 

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I had been using a laundry service ever since.  They came and picked up my dirty clothes and returned them washed and folded.  I liked the service so much, I just never got around to replacing the broke down machine.  But people buying a new house do not want to inherit old problems, so I bought a new washer and dryer.  The guys showed up yesterday to install them and that’s when I found out why the previous owner and been so insistent that we take the old one.  They will not fit out of the laundry room, nor the new ones fit in.

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Those tits!  Them  biceps!  And glasses!

The owners two before us had built in a number of shelves and cabinets and closets around the house, all very beautifully constructed and which I have tried to keep cause I can appreciate how much work they represent.  Some I’ve had to tear out, just because they didn’t work with how I wanted to use the room, or they were in the way, but plenty I still use and am grateful for.

One of these closets is in the little passageway between the kitchen and the laundry room.  The trim work on the side in the laundry room makes the space to pass through 28 inches wide  The washers, both old and new, are 28 and a half inches wide.  A half fucking inch.  That’s what ground the whole project to a halt.  I wound up telling them to just unload the new machines in the garage and I would deal with it.  They seemed very contrite as if they had let me down, when in fact, it was my architecture’s fault.

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Anyway, that’s where my “Do one thing a night” program simply ground to a halt.  The delivery guys left, taking their overwhelming cloud of perfume sort of with them (and why is that?  Why do delivery and installer guys all wear such liberal doses of scent.  Worse, why is it so often the very kind of perfume that gives me headaches?)  they left, I went upstairs, took an Ativan and my pain medicine, fed Saki so he wouldn’t harass me overly and then climbed in bed.  Good night and god bless.

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oh.  my.

What I have since come to realize is that the cabinet maker owner must have built the closet while the machine was there.  Those owners were only the second ones the house had had, which leads me to believe that fucking washing machine was the original one for the house.  And the house was 50 years old last year, so that washing machine has been grinding along since Ginger and Mary Ann were miraculously wearing clean outfits on Gilligan’s Island.  Also, if that poor old thing had just held on nine more months, I could have sold it with the house and never even discovered this whole quagmire of insurmountable half inches.

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That HAIR.  Oh dear.

This morning, I called my handyman Jose.  He’s My Guy.  All homeowners eventually wind up with A Guy, someone who can unclog things and electrify that which is un-electric, and in general keep your house from falling apart.  Jose was unfazed by my description of the catastrophe and assured me he will be over after lunch tomorrow and fix it.  And he will. I have never known Jose to let me down.  His esthetic choices are pretty shaky, but I have learned when to just cut in and announce a different choice in color or material.  Aside from that, he is the best My Guy you could ask for.

As usual, the  beefcake today is made possible by For the love of NudeMuscleMen   the best naked guy site I know of.  I am very grateful to them simply for existing.

For Sale

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I assume this is true both philosophically true as well as applying to the massive buttocks pictured below.

Yes, I am selling my house and moving to a smaller place down in the world famous gay neighborhood, the Castro.  Why?  I love my house here, being located in this canyon means it is amazingly quiet and peaceful for being in the very center of San Francisco, but I need the money.  Apparently, since R Man and I bought it 21 years ago, it has become worth a buttload of money.  That is a real estate technical term.  If I were to access that buttload, I would return to my previous status of Wealthy Widow.  I’m not wild about being a widow, but if you have to be one, wealthy is definitely the way to go.
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First, some muscle pussy, cause this is a really long post and you need something to get you through it.

I met with a couple of realtors, the first was Ruth, whom I kept calling Julie and who turned out to be a Mean Girl.  She has been dismissed from our lives.  Let us speak of her no more.  The second, Wendy, was much more to my liking, a lesbian of a certain age, who was much more complimentary to my house and decorating (tip to realtors wooing potential clients: do not diss a gay man’s decor) but the selling point was the first thing.  She came in, we walked up to the dining room so I could show her the garden before it got dark and she said “What a beautiful ceanothus.”  Sold.  The ceanothus is this big shrub right in the middle of my garden that this time of year is covered in purple flowers.  I think this particular one is the best I’ve ever seen, it is my pride and joy, and she knew what it was.  We had a long very interesting talk, without her realizing she had already won.
So, she’s with Sotheby’s.  Oh my dear, oh yes.  They’re going to produce a booklet about the house, the samples of which she showed me were the most expensive looking printed material I’ve ever seen outside of a good book store.  And a VIDEO.  Not just a video, but one shot with a drone for aerial views.  I am not making this up.  When it’s online I’ll post the link.
The plan both proposed was for a stager to redo the house.  Wendy was much more delicate about urging it, but apparently when asking for the buttload of money I want, staging is a must.  I had already known I would have to repaint.  My stairwell and upstairs hall are painted black.  Counting on someone to dig the black hall seemed like a long shot.  How many Goth kids are in the real estate market these days?  So the stagers will handle all the painting and repairing a barely functional shower that has been the bane of Diane von Austinburg’s visits for years.  They will use their own furniture, thus I’m moving before I sell the place.  Life is so complicated.
The big problem, as usual, is Saki.  I have to get him and the eau de kitty out.  So we’re going to move out, rent some place for the time it takes to fix up the house, show it, sell it and then find a new one to buy.  Did I mention that point?  I’m buying a small place down in the Castro, hopefully for a great deal less than what I sell this one for.   I am actually OK with the moving out part, I do not want to be dodging the realtor showing the house and it is the only way to get rid of the cat smell.
Once I  resigned myself to selling the house, the first thing I thought of was holding an estate sale.  Imagine the thrill of not just going to one but being the ruler of it. I have invited Diane von Austinburg to act as co-ruler, I’d love it.  She is considering it.  Think of the thrill of watching people fight over the crap she and I have dragged back from various thrifting adventures over the years.  I cannot wait.  And I am serious about unloading.  Everything must go.  I’m keeping my bed, and few other bits and pieces, but aside from that, it is all on.  Make me an offer for the cat and I will consider it.
Last night I was organizing my vast porn collection to give away and wound up with the floor of my bedroom covered in stacks of magazines (I had decided to organize them by titles.  I now have no idea why)  It was exhausting, and as I dragged my poor aching carcass to bed, I thought “I’m going to trip over this in the dark on a pee run.”  I was too tired to care and a few hours later, sure enough, coming back in, tripped and went down like the Titanic.  Fortunately, I already had an appointment with my chiropractor and he helped, but I am still sore.  Why is life so hard?
Here’s one last look at Chez Moi:
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My living room

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My favorite rug,  The center is a lantern hanging from a branch protruding from a cliff.  Love.

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A tiny little Danish modern bureau which

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ta-dah, converts to a vanity when you flip up the top.

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My room, where absolutely no magic happens.  That red lump on the cedar chest is Saki napping in one of his many, many beds scattered around the place.

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When the relator I like showed up, the first thing I said was “I blame everything on the cat.”

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And finally, my late, great smut collection, now handed off to some weird guy from Oakland who repeatedly announced he had OCD.  Whatever.  Adieu, my paper dolls. God love you and thank you for the countless hours (cumulatively) you have given me.

The Night Owl Report

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I was huddled in my bed feeling like an idiot, which is not unusual.  The day after I posted my triumphant cry that Spring had sprung upon San Francisco,  a storm front blew in, the skies opened and it’s been cold and rainy ever since.  True, that is spring weather, but it wasn’t the spring weather I had been so very smug about.

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I really don’t have any relevant pictures for my adventures in Kitchenland, so I’m just going with muscly youth.  I can’t imagine anyone complaining.

As usual, when I’m not happy, I got up to go eat.  Something.  Anything.  I remembered that I had roasted a bunch of baby carrots just because I wanted some roast carrots and there were still quite a few left.  As the carrots were whirling around in the mircrowave, I also decided I would make custard.  My cooking decisions are almost always based on “What do I have and what can I do with it?”  In this case, eggs, half & half, sugar, vanilla and salt pointed towards custard.  The fact that I was longing for some sweet blandness didn’t hurt.

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Nothing is easier to cook than custard.  The most technical part is breaking an egg.  If you can do that, the rest is just measure and stir.  It is in the oven right now, in its bain marie, which is a fancy name for a pan half full of hot water, almost finished.

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While it was baking, the carrots were ready, but I realized I wanted some carbs with it.  Bread, tortillas, left over scones, I wasn’t being picky.  I had just bought a loaf of this wonderful cinnamon bread I love.   Sort of sweet and rich, it’s very similar to challah.  Its only downside is that it comes as a whole loaf, unsliced.  Instead of just slicing off the end  bit and calling it a day, I decided to slice the entire thing to make giving into temptation in the future just that much easier.

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Amazing how very tasty the carrots and the cinnamon bread were together.  An unplanned triumph.  A serendipitous snack, and isn’t that really the best kind.

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The timer for the custard just went off.  I know you’re supposed to test if they’re done enough with a silver blade stuck in the middle to see if it comes out clean.   But I have no silver blades.  Get real, this is not Downton Abbey.  Silver is terrible metal for knife blades,   It’s soft and so it dulls faster than you can eat.  I just gently shake the pan to see how much the custard quivers.  You want it past the jiggly stage, but not firm, because it will continue to cook as it cools.

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OK, so, carrots, heated and eaten, bread sliced and also eaten, combination: a radiant stroke of genius, the kitchen cleaned, the custard cooling and just quivery enough.

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I realize all this kitchen madness is not terribly worth a post, it’s just that all of it took place between 3:00 AM and 3:45 AM.  It is pitch black outside, no one else is stirring, even the raccoons have gone to bed, but here I am at my peak.  This is when I am the most energetic (not saying much) and clear headed.  Some people are made for the night and that’s me.

It wasn’t until I retired and the shackles of employment released me that I found out I am an owl.  All those years waking up to go to work just when I was most ready to doze off, how wrong they all were.

I’ll go take my meds and get in bed; not to go to sleep, but because that’s my favorite place to read.  So I’ll be reading and struggling with the cat over who gets the best bed position, a fight I lose every night, and along about dawn, I’ll doze off.

It’s a perfect world.  At last.

All these lovely specimen are courtesy of the stunningly well curated blog    For the Love of NudeMuscleMen    I borrowed them without permission and I hope they do not mind my poaching because I really do think whoever is picking the art for the collection has an impeccable eye.

Spring Break

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We interrupt mrpeenee as we do just about every year around this time to announce the Spring has arrived in San Francisco.   Each year we try to make the announcement with a cheery demeanor that manages to hide our smugness and each year, we fail.  Nyah, nyah, nyah, snowbound motherfuckers.  There are justifiable reasons why it costs so goddam much to live here:

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armies of cute boys,

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and a springtime that is what poets fumble around trying to describe.

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The cherry trees (and flowering plum trees, I can’t tell them apart) are the first outliers of the season and I shot these in two blocks of 18th Street.  Multiply that times the whole city and you get an idea of what I’m smug about.

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One great disappointment was this tiny cottage which has been a source of delight for years.   Since we first got here, the house was painted a soft pink and a medium sort of burgundy.  It was a fine color combination, no big deal, until the cherry trees in front of it bloomed and they were the exact same colors as the house.  It was amazing.  As a house owner and a gardener, matching the two seems like such an appealing idea, but I know how hard it would be to pull off.  Getting an exact shade of paint is almost impossible, getting TWO is a miracle.

And now, some idiot, who probably bough the house when the trees were out of flower, has painted it brown.  Just brown.  Too add salt to the wound, one of the two trees appears to be dead.   Possibly out of color-related grief.

Also a shame is that for some reason, Asian magnolias, which were also a harbinger of springtime and which were very common around town, seem to have sort of vanished,  This time of year, almost every block seemed to have one or two and now I don’t see them anywhere.  Golden Gate Park had a huge collection of them, including some from the Himalayas that were 50 feet tall.  The Arboretum, which housed most of them, moves things around a lot, to keep it fresh, a few years ago dug up a grove of them.  Mistake.  The grove was an example of how many varieties of them there are and I always thought it was charming in spring, the big pink and purple and white blooms on the bare branches; just lovely.

Still, I need to go out to the park.  Even a shut in can appreciate the beauties of spring.

 

Obscure Presidents and the More Obvious

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The always illuminating blog Cafe Muscato has a charming President Day celebratory theme. Which was handy since I had no idea today was President’s Day. Since retiring, keeping track of holidays is sort of moot. If you don’t work, everyday’s a holiday! Besides Muscato is located in Washington, where the day is more of big deal than anywhere else. I’m sure most Americans know it mainly as the Mattress Sale holiday and how did that wind up together anyway?

The “tune” included in Muscato’s post reminded me how littered with blanks my ability to name presidents is.  I’m OK for about the first five. OK, four. but after that, things sort of dribble out. I know there were two Adams, two Roosevelts and two Bushes (which, let’s face it. were two too many) and Millard Fillmore. San Francisco has an overabundance of streets named after mediocre presidents, including Fillmore, and the Fillmore, famous nightclub shrine of 60s Rock ‘n Roll, takes its name simply from its location, so that’s how Millard Fillmore is related to the Jefferson Airplane.

More interesting than presidents who ran on the Know Nothing Party (and thank you for THAT trend) let us turn instead to over-photoshopped beauties, a trend I mostly run across when shopping around for illustrations for this blog.

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Do we think this guy looks like this in real life? Is it possible some creature resembling this walks into Starbucks and orders lattes? How could chaos not break out? There’s that Uncanny Valley thing, which wikipedia explains better than I do, to wit:

The concept of the uncanny valley suggests that humanoid objects which appear almost, but not exactly, like real human beings elicit uncanny, or strangely familiar, feelings of eeriness and revulsion in observers.

 

Revulsion may not be the feeling this youth stirs, but he doesn’t exactly look human either. I mean, I wouldn’t mind a few hours in a romantic setting with him, but still, that utter perfection looks like it owes more to Mattel than to good genes.

Also part of the photoshopping madness we have the “Just keep hitting the enlarge button”

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Nobody loves a great big whopper better than I, but there comes a point when we’re back in the Uncanny part of town. I’m OK with a “touchup” let’s say, something that’s in the way of wishful thinking.  But honey this, this reaches structurally impossible.

Annals of Medical Triumph, Vol. Whatever

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I went for an MRI late this afternoon.  This was not one of those “I don’t have anything better to do, maybe I’ll go in for an unpleasant medical experience” things.   Having gone to my back doctor for more than a year, I think he realized I was not just going to go away and so he ordered one to have a little look see at what is actually going on inside my back.  Why am I whining all the time, in other words.

Sweet pancakes of mine, I had always heard how LOUD an MRI is, but was unprepared for the reality of it.  It is stick your head in a jet engine loud.  I am of the generation that shared in the hearing damage of serious rock shows and none of them were this loud.  And that was with earplugs and these sound deadening blocks on my ears.  “Sound deadening.”  It is to laugh.

They shoved me into a tiny tube after repeatedly asking if I was claustrophobic.  How I wish I said yes, maybe they would have given me drugs.  mrpeenee’s new Rule Number 1: Always demand drugs when in a hospital.  Even if you’re just visiting some patient. Then the racket cranked up.

I remembered reading about some christian who chanted “Christ’s mercy” as he was being martyred (and these pagan guys in charge of martyring were terribly inventive.  Saints are depicted usually with some reference to how they met their grisly fate; Saint Lucy with her eyeballs on a plate, Saint Agatha with her titties on another plate, Saint Lawrence, who was grilled and toasted alive, is shown holding a griddle, which usually looks sort of like a waffle maker.  In the Sistine Chapel, Jesus is getting up from his chair and turning away from all the damned with this air of “I am through with you.  Later bitches.” and all the saints form a sort of scrimmage line between him and the out of luck souls trying to scramble out of hell.  But Lucy, Agatha and Lawrence, ready to tackle them and still holding those damn plates and griddle, give it the air of very odd buffet.  Christians.  So weird.)

Anyway, I tried mentally chanting “Christ’s mercy”, but it didn’t seem to do much, possibly because I am a heathen, so I switched it up to “RuPaul’s mercy, RuPaul’s mercy.”  That didn’t do much either.  I just gave up and started hoping I would begin hallucinating soon.

They finally dragged me out.  The tech cheerfully said “Well, that was a long one, but we got some great pictures!” I was literally staggering and limping from being cramped and not moving for 45 minutes, but it was after 6:00, these guys were ready to get out of work, so they kept announcing that I just had to go through the double doors.  They had the air of a bartender shoving the last drunks out the room.

I didn’t care.  I was so glad it was over, I would have crawled out if I’d had to.  So now I’m  home eating Oxycodone and ice cream in about equal measure.  But we got some great pictures!  Maybe I’ll get some wallet size ones.

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Or maybe I would prefer these back pictures

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Definitely.  Better than my back.

Substances

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So Saki has the tiniest little substance abuse, or just substance great fondness.  Cat nip, of course.  The heartbreak of so many happy homes.  I keep most of his toys in a charming wicker basket in the living room.  Every other Monday, the cleaning ladies gather up all the toys that have escaped and put them back in the toy box;  I expect this is accompanied by a disapproving sniff.  I’m only surprise they don’t drop in a pamphlet about Jesus is The Light.

Recently I brought one of the catnip snakes up to my room so when those rare moments of consciousness pass by I can play with Saki, poor little neglected waif.  Now in the wee-est of hours, I will hear, somewhere out in the dark, Saki licking and sucking and grunting and making Nip Love to the Nip Snake.

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Speaking of the Nip Snake

I have my own substance problems.  Using them isn’t the problem; laying hands on them is.  Last summer, my pain doctor started on a quest to find something to replace vicodin in my daily life.  He emphasized it was because along with vicodin comes ibuprofin or aceteminfin. neither of which are good for your liver.  This has nothing to do with Congress’s sudden feverish attack on opioids.  Oh no.  Thus began the Summer of Annoying Drugs.  Some made me sick, some made me crazy (literally.  The Children and Super Agent Fred developed this worried look about me) and then I found Opana.  I’ve spoken about this before; just as I got used to it working really well and being a great help, the FDA pressured its manufacturer into removing it from the market.

The press pointedly said the drug they were removing was Opnana Extended Release.  I was taking Opana Immediate Release.   Patience is not one of my many virtues.  I asked both doctor and pharmacist if that made a difference.  Nope.  It’s gone.  And so I wound up on Oxycodone, which I have long resisted since it is so trailer park trashy and you know what a Lady I am, especially about those things I put in my body.  Which is a temple.  And possibly a bowling alley.

Then yesterday at my monthly doctor visit, the good doctor said “You know, I’ve been thinking, the only thing the reports said they were removing was Opana ER, so I started wondering if maybe Opana IR is still out there, so I checked and it is.  Why don’t we get you back on that?”

Thank god for years of government work which has left me immune to fatheads.  I did not shriek about how that’s what I said in October.  I simply agreed, oh what a clever idea, aren’t you a good boy.

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Who’s a good boy?

So now I’m back on Opana.  My back and I are so very glad.  Of course, it comes in big ass pills, that I cut in half and then take every three hours, so I’m pretty much on a steady, higher plane.  OK with me.

And Saki is all nipped up, so everybody is happy.  Until our next crisis.

Once Again, Late

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O little lamby eyed children, I meant to post something about the start of Carnival on its actual start date which was Jan 6, but somehow a week has snuck past.  It happens.

So Happy Carnival.  Carnival is the season that leads up to Lent and which finishes with Mardi Gras.  The general idea I was always fed was that it was a chance to get all the wildness out before Lent, a season when you’re supposed to be all pious and godly and pruny faced and give up shit in order to show your neighbors what a good christian you are.  In reality I assume it’s simply one of those pagan holidays the Church gobbled up to get the pagans in the pews.  Surely, at this time of the year, after you’ve been snowed into some hut with a bunch of other stinky vikings, all of whom eat far too much cabbage, you are ready to cut loose and so here we are with some patched together holiday.

I moved to New Orleans in 1980 specifically so that I could live there during Mardi Gras.  I had come to visit during Fat Tuesdays in college and had such a good time, basing my life on the idea of being in town when the holiday hit seemed like a brilliant idea.  And it was.

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I always wanted my costume to get me to look like this.

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Inevitably it looked more like this.  Minus the striking head piece.  Mostly just a bunch of feathers and construction paper wadded up somewhere around me with some bananas and dirty feet.

I had no idea before I got there that there was an entire season of parties and parades and shenanigans that led up to the actual day of Mardi Gras, but once I found out about Carnival I plunged in with wild enthusiasm.  There is, or was, an air of giddy good times al over New Orleans during Carnival.   Any fuck up is shrugged off with an air of helplessness and the statement “It’s Carnival.”  Of course the street is suddenly closed because of a parade.  It’s Carnival. Of course you can’t get into your favorite restaurant because it’s closed for a party where people wear paper plates on their faces.  It’s Carnival.   Of course some former trick shows up at your doorstep and wants to spend the weekend.  It’s Carnival.

And that was the real thrill of the season for me: a substantial uptick in the amount of sex to be had, and I was already busy with a considerable quantity of boy pussy even without the whole “It’s Carnival” bit added in.

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Mens would be so swept up in the Bacchynal of it all, I was able to snag creatures as heavenly as this.  I swear.  And then we would move along to the next one.

When I lived there. I can remember 4 bars, just in the French Quarter, that housed back rooms devoted to anonymous, but high quality, sex.  I would strike out late in the evening confidant I would spend the next four or five hours getting blow jobs and butt fucking strangers and thought nothing of it.  It didn’t seem louche or strange or sordid.  It was Carnival.

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Like this.

On one fine Mardi Gras afternoon, I fought my way through the crowd up to the balcony around a bar called Lafittes in Exile.   There was a wall of men hanging over the railing which provided a shield for me to get down on my knees and go to town on this cute, cute boy’s wiener.  I had only really got rolling when an employee tapped me on the shoulder, not to berate me, but to ask that I take it inside.  I was annoyed.  I found out later from friends who worked there, it was simply a duty that got handed out to patrol the balcony and stop nasty business from getting out of  hand.  The job was called Cock Cop.

I don’t know why they bothered, it was never that uncommon to run across a couple of guys engaged in sodomy in some doorway.  Ah, l’amour.

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Or this.

Of course all that’s done and gone and I feel sorry for the queers of today who missed it.  But, oh whatever Saint blessed me with the idiotic idea to come live in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, my most sincere thanks.

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Saint Buttus Fuckus, we give thanks for your many gifts and for protecting your devout followers from STDS.  Amen/

Thank God That’s Over

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That’s what Mary said after she finally popped the biscuit out of the oven.  Little did she know.

I had a lovely christmas, thanks.   Secret Agent Fred was over at his abusive boyfriend’s place (which is actually Fred’s place, but when the boyfriend becomes too abusive, Fred comes over here to hide.  Life is so complicated.)  So it was just me and Saki and some banana pudding and some left over home made chicken pot pie (beyond delicious) and some fudge, also home made, and some oxycontin.   Saki would stand on my chest screaming that it was time to feed him, I would stumble downstairs, scrape out the cat food, eat a piece of fudge and fall back in bed.  Fabulous.

As is this mid-century Norman Rockwell knockoff.

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You know those two gentlemen on the end of the couch are planning sodomy once they’ve fed their wives enough Manhattans, those teens by the clock are tripping like a thousand screamin monkeys and think they’re talking to Chrissie Hynde and the old farts in the kitchen are chained to the stove after last years’ “incident.”  Happy Holidays bitches.

Speaking of planning sodomy, here:

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No Bahs, No Humbugs

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As i mentioned recently, I have decided to make peace with Christmas decorations.  Afterall, no matter how I spit and fume, they are not going anywhere, they are (sort of ) attractive, and all too soon tax season will be upon us; save your venom for then.

In that vein, I decided to photograph the prim and terribly quiet neighborhood I live next to (their home owners association will not accept our street.  How mortifying.) and which I drive through to the grocery store.  When I say they are prim and quiet to the point of being prissy, I mean that for the balance of the year.  Come Yuletide, these motherfucker start slinging gaudy, vulgar decorations around like a dock whore on a crack vacation.

My apologies for the crappy  quality of the photos, it’s the best my phone can do at night on the way home from the grocery with me just leaning out of the window.

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The classic California Xmas: a palm tree wrapped in lights.

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Or just some random bush

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I am actually old enough to remember when they introduced simple white lights as an alternative to all the cheery colorful madness.  They seemed SO minimalistic and tasteful.  Now  I think they’re just dull.  Step it up bitches or step off.

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The “Why Bother?”

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And the grand finale, “The Blockbuster.”  I only regret I couldn’t capture the tinkling carole music that I assume grinds aloong nonstop and which, were I their neighbor, would drive me to attck it with a pick axe.

Please note, none of these trashy hoes are on MY street.  I look out my window and all I can see are those awful compact fluorescent lightbulbs lighting front porches waaiting for UPS men to draw near.

So anyway, joyeux Noel, bitches.  My plan for christmas? Extra oxycodone and consciousness only when Saki absolutely demands it for me to feed him.

My security guard will be enforcing this.

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