Tag Archives: friends

Cafe Life

Standard

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.

mucato

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.

This is How mrpeenee’s Brain Works

Standard

I miss trouble

Space here on earth is a finite thing, you know, and I say if your reproductive system forces you to use one of those stupid double wide baby strollers, you are taking up too much of it.  Sell at least one of those squalling snot machines you’ve popped out and make room in the grocery store aisle for the rest of us.

My garden, the result of two decades of grubbing and ruined manicures, looks swell this year, despite a statewide drought.  Purple seems to be the overriding theme with irises that I transplanted loving their new home

iris

“City Light” iris. Wowza.

statice

Limonium, taking no prisoners and kicking horticultural ass.

and a tough ass piece called limonium, the dried purple flowers of which, statice, are the filler of choice for florists around the world.  It does fine every year, but occasionally decides that this is going to be a “Say-Something” season and this year is just that.  The lily looking plants next to it are crocosmia, which bloom with bright orange flowers that look splendid with the purple statice on those years when they both bloom simultaneously, but this is not one of those years.  That’s how gardens roll.

quarter

Springtime in the French Quarter

pearl neon

My favorite neon in New Orleans.

I breezed down to New Orleans to check on the renovation of my house there and to check in on our old chum Magda.   The house is doing fine; Magda less so.  He will shortly have been incarcerated in the hospital system for a month and the doctors still have no clear idea about what’s causing his blood pressure and blood chemistry to roller coaster up and down and seem to regard this ignorance with a jaunty insouciance.

I was not much help while there; I was sort of unprepared for how much the whole experience of visiting the hospital would drag up visions of  R Man’s last uncomfortable days.  I know that’s selfish, but it was a very visceral reaction and one I could not get on top of.  I am ashamed.

st roch

The front porch of my soon-to-be ex-house. I would weep, but I have no tears.

Less traumatic than an old friend’s fragile health, but still pretty upsetting, is the news from my tax guy and my financial guy that my merry eviscerating of the IRAs I was living off of in order to finance the New Orleans’ renovation has actually moved me into a higher tax bracket, the rapacious taxes of which mean I will have to sell the house in order to pay the bill.  Irony.  I hate it.