Cafe Life

I don’t know what you little chickens may have been up to recently, but I have spent the last couple of weeks being entertained by the charming eponymous Muscato from Cafe Muscato .  The old dear was in town for work (or “work.” More on that later) and put up with my blathering for a couple of dinners and a long Saturday afternoon when I promised to show him around town, but which turned out to be nothing but a long coffee at Peet’s, a long trip to the hardware store, and then a long dinner.  I would like to point out it is an especially amusing hardware store and dinner was excellent.

Throughout, Muscato was the most amusing company one could ask for.  I plied him with all sorts of lies and exaggerations about my little life and was able to weasel out a great many of the details that he is so meticulously discreet about on his own site.  I would like to imply I am not sharing them because I am honoring his rectitude about personal items (mrpeenee, The Soul of Discretion.  There’s a laugh,) but actually, I’m not sure I really believe these stories of a blameless but colorful life from Broadway to Cairo.  It’s possible it was a carefully crafted cover story.  Two words: Black Ops, darling.

I can now picture Muscato ensconced in some sweaty Asian bar, murmuring instructions to a dead-eyed operative who then departs to unleash Jason Bournesque destruction while Muscato returns to his subterfuge as a North African taxi dancer.

I am not fooled by tales of domestic bliss and terriers.  Some day there will be congressional hearings replete with all sorts of redacted documents and takings of the Fifth and there will be our own Muscato, “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.” his only quote.

You just wait.

The Discrete Charms of Muscato, left.  Who the guy in the background is is beyond me, but as you can see, he is noting every word of our scintillating conversation which I believe was probably about porn.  That came up a lot.  For heaven’s sake, he’s not even being subtle.

I Hate Writing. I Love Having Written.

In an almost charming back-and-forth in the comment section of Cafe Muscato , Diane von Austinburg and Muscato were griping about my lack of writing, blogging, mash notes, whatever, so I’m ripping off a portion of an email I JUST SENT to Diane as proof that they’re full of baloney.  There.

to wit:

“I had a dream some person stole a baby and then I was reprimanding them for this and then, I don’t know, they died? Maybe? Anyway I wound up with the baby and was terribly confused.

Did I tell you about the path o’ destruction I found here when I came home? A busted window, a broken lamp, a hole in the office closet door, my keyboard and mouse replaced because the old had “gotten fried,” and the dried remains of some mysterious fluid splattered all over the upper stairwell and hall. Secret Agent Fred blamed Saki, Saki took that “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t” attitude cats are so fond of. I’m not sure I believe either of them.”

See?  I write.  News you can use, gossip, and slander all rolled up with possibly prophetic dreams.

Speaking of dreams:

Also, while I’m recycling old emails to friends who don’t deserve them, here’s part of one I dashed off to Night is Half Gone’s Jason while we were ducking and weaving in New Orleans last month:

“two of my neighbors blipped up on Friday and tried to be trouble to me, but I charmed them into fucking off. Later, I mentioned to the contractor and one of his minions “I got 99 problems and that hag ain’t one of them.” Both of the guys seemed gratifyingly amused, less amusing was their attitude of complete astonishment that I could paraphrase rapper thugs. Bitch, what you looking at, I am down.”

I’m telling you, epistolary.

Seventeen Perfectly Good Reasons mrpeenee Hasn’t Blogged in Weeks

I’m lazy.

Our dear, dear old chum Magda died earlier this month and while I wasn’t prepared to include here how sad the loss made me, I also didn’t feel like I could just ignore it either.  He was sweet as I am bitter and lovable as I am curmudgeonly and the world is a dimmer place without him.

Also, Magda was central to the house I purchased in New Orleans and its renovation.  He helped me pick out the furniture and was full of sensible suggestions about the reno and actually worked a great deal more on it than I did.  The fact that he died a little more than a week before I moved in and thus never saw the finished glory is galling, just galling.

And yes, I moved into the house last week.  Turns out moving into a house halfway across the country is hard.  More on that later.

I am not about to mess up a perfectly good manicure typing this gibberish for all you ingrates, much as I love you.

The internet has run out of pictures of attractive young men for me to swipe and illustrate my posts with.  Wait, that’s not true.

The world simply does not need another blog entry about how annoying cats who hog the whole bed are.

Speaking of Saki, he won’t get off the computer, so I couldn’t get to my blog.

If Mistress over at Infomaniac doesn’t have to blog, why should I?  I haven’t been bad.

I wasn’t feeling it.

The stupid little topknots all the stupid boys are wearing these days fills me such an unquenchable rage that I can’t concentrate on typing.

I had planned on writing while I was in New Orleans last week, but the gorgeous, enormous thunderstorms were just too distracting.  As much as I love San Francisco and our persistently beautiful weather here, I also miss the drama of a Gulf Coast storm.

Pudding.

I’ve been playing the old timey dice game Yahtzee on my phone with all my friends and crushing them in defeat has taken up all my attention.

I would think about writing a post and then think “I need a nap.”  Naps always win.

I’m still lazy.

In Which mrpeenee Dumps Blogger

As with many of our dear blogging brothers and sisters, Blogger, the Google site I’ve always used to publish my deathless prose, sent me a charming little email that essentially said they had determined I was a filthy smut peddler and that I could delete all the dirty pictures they assumed my blog contained by March 23 or they would delete my blog for me.

I am not good about ultimatums; my automatic reflex is to say “Fuck you.”  Because there exists competition for Blogger (a name which is curiously close to “Booger,” don’t you think?) I was able to do just that, hence our new little home here in the rather sterile confines of WordPress.

The transition almost got the best of me since I foolishly looked up several articles on how to move from one to the other, all of which were astonishingly complicated.  In the midst of trying to follow one, rife with typos and which called out for a good editor, I accidentally stumbled on the embedded function of “export” in Blogger and “import” here. We’ll see how it goes.

I hope I don’t lose any of my old baby.  Aside from sharing the fascinating details of my day-to-day, it’s functioned as a diary of sorts and I would hate to miss out on all the sweet things you guys said about my wedding and the very important support I got when R Man was dying.

I realize I will lose all my Blogger Followers, but let’s get real; since my actual readership consists pretty much of the same 12 miscreants (and I love each and every one of you, truly,) I’m not sure what a big deal that might be.

And what is with Blogger anyway?  I already had that stupid “mature content” warning at the front of the blog, what more did they need?  “LOOK OUT!  DICK PIX AHEAD!!!”  In their ridiculous message to me they explained “We’ll still allow nudity presented in artistic, educational, documentary, or scientific contexts, or where there are other substantial benefits to the public” thus wading smack into the swamp of what is and what is not smut, a bog in which much finer minds than they appear to possess have perished.

Anyway, here we are.  It’s visually sort of bland, but I’m a gay man – redecorating is in my DNA.  Again, we’ll see. To celebrate, and to see if I can figure out how to include photos, here’s my new favorite imaginary boyfriend, Jaxton Wheeler, in a still life swiped directly from the fabulous Jason’s Tumblr Goldenfleecing. (ed. note.  I cannot figure out how to link out to Jason’s site.  Go find it.)