Tag Archives: muscle pussy

Musical mrpeenee

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I had dinner the other night at Fable, one of my all time favorite restaurants, and was assailed by their music selection.  Since I was dining alone, I had no one with whom to share my insight that the only thing more annoying than old timey rap is French old timey rap.

What is with French people and popular music?  They’ve had 60 years of rock and roll, just like the rest of us, and they still can’t get it.  I have a theory that their love of rules means they’re still looking for a pop music owners’ manual.  Tragically, my theory will never be examined because I find their music too irritating to listen to long enough to find out.

But wait, there’s more.  Yesterday I had my teeth cleaned (and found out I have to have a root canal next week) with a new dental tech.  My former one was efficient and no nonsense and accepted my blithe answer that I pretty much never floss with a curt “At least you don’t lie about it.”  Her replacement is overwhelmingly cheerful and never shuts up.

The music in the office has changed from some very nice classical to something that vaguely resembles mellow jazz, but has no breaks between what might be songs.  I assume it’s some algorithm that creates noise influenced by the dreaded Kenny G.  Bad enough, but the dental technician only ever stopped yammering in order to hum along with it.  Yes, she was singing along to musical gibberish.

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Mens to help me calm down:

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Cheery.  That’s what I need after a punishing dental session.

Seen on the Street

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One of the best features about my new (new-ish) apartment is the gym right next door.  Not that I use it for working out.  Eeks, no.  But it does pretty much guarantee a steady stream of really cute, well built guys streaming past my front door.  I would consider joining it just to go and ogle the boys changing, but all of them look like they come in their gym clothes already.  While that improves the streetscape, it does cut down on the ogling chances.

I’d prefer something like this:

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Also, while we’re down here on the street, I’ve recently seen a return of a graffiti (I believe there is a different noun for a single piece of graffiti, but I’m too lazy to look it up. You can if you’d like to.) I’m very fond of; the street koi.

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These have been around for years, sort of on and off.  I like them because they’re unusual, being on the street, and the play with a sense of perspective, as if you’re looking down into a koi pond.   And now, apparently, the artist has been commissioned to cover up temporary construction walls, so good for him.

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As I said, the koi come and go.  Imagine my surprise when I was in New Orleans once and stumbled upon a bunch of them there.  My friend Stephen said he was acquainted with the artist, but not fond of him.  He said the local theory of the random appearance of the art was that the artist would inevitably wind up with enough restraining orders against him that he would leave town until they built up in his new environs at which time he would strike out for new horizons.  I don’t know, I’m just going on Stephen’s possibly biased deductions.

I’m a fan of graffiti.  I think it can be charming and amusing and even beautiful.   Well, not when people jus splatter their tag up and call it day.  That has all the appeal of a car alarm going off.  But when it’s funny and makes you think, isn’t that art?

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In Which We Go Back A Bit

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For those of you who missed them the first time around, or those who still miss them, here is the 1980s wrapped up in one video:

Let’s see, do we have all the parts?

  • Bleach blonde, pouty lipped pretty boy singer?  Check,
  • Hyper stylized clothes that make you look like you got dressed in a hurry, in the dark?  Check.
  • Synth laden music ripping off better, more original music (in this case, Spin Me Round by Dead or Alive)?  Check.
  • Ronald Reagan’s poisonous spirit looming around?  Check.
  • The terrifying mystery of AIDS just off camera, but very present?  Check.

Turns out the last is more important to this bit than was originally intended since the singer, Paul Lekakis, admitted in an interview with POZ magazine that he had lied about his HIV status to his customers while turning tricks in Los Angeles in the 90s.  The interview and, maybe, Lekakis makes this sound unpardonable and shocking.  Sweetie, I was there and I remember that by the late 90s when Lekakis was working West Hollywood what AIDS was was unquestionable and how it spread was well established. What he did was bad, but was it that shocking?  If you ask a rentboy about his HIV status and then take his word for it, you are simply too naive to be hiring one.

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In other 80s news, Buttocks of the Past:

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Mike Timber

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Buck Hayes

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Mike Betts

Merry Xmas, with Extra Bits

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My christmas present showed up today.  Yay!  Totally not sarcastic for once!  Genuine yay!

When I was in Austin earlier this month, the charming Diane von Austinburg led me to a small gallery we both like called Yard Dog.  Totally cool.  If you’re in Austin, you should drop in there on South Congress.  I was very struck by, and then bought,  a constructed piece called Who Breaks a Butterfly on a Wheel?  Photo below:

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As we stood there arranging for it be shipped halfway across the country, Diane remarked that it was never going to make it all the way out here in one piece.  Or words to that effect.  Diane is never snarkey and I can never imitate her measured tones.

Proof of Diane’s prescience:

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I think the frame holding the components might have started out life as a really big wall clock (although it seems too shallow for that) or possibly a whatnot shelf.  It’s mahogany and the little feet allowed us to stand it up in the gallery since I was thinking of displaying it that way rather than hanging it.   All those little bits ‘n bobs there on the left are the pieces I found in the bottom of the shipping box.  I only found the legs that had busted off by sifting through the peanuts. All of these pieces seem like what you could have found in the back of any good grandfather’s garage when I was a kid.  Even the eight ball.  Now it’s art.

God knows, the very nice guy who owns Yard Dog did the best he could in packing it.  There was enough styrofoam peanuts to account for a small slip in global warming.  The padding also included some scraps of bubble wrap taped together in a way that suspiciously implied they may have at one point provided the basis for a wacky Halloween costume.

Still, in the end, it was not enough.  Looking it over closely now, I am pretty sure no human effort would have sufficed.  I’m not convinced this baby could have made it from the gallery to the car without at least one piece falling off.

The artist’s attitude towards construction seems to have leaned towards the lassiez faire, with a fair amount of glue and possibly spit.  He also seems to have depended on gravity with somethings apparently just resting on top of others.  “It’s art,” it implies “How much are you really going to be moving this around?”  Good point.

And to be honest, this brings up the interesting idea of how closely do I have to hew to the artist’s original when reassembling all this?  In the picture of the piece before its shipping trauma, you can see a big semi-petrified handball on the top right corner.  I thought at the time that it threw the proportion off and didn’t really work.  And now it’s fallen off!  Do I have to put dutifully back in place?  If you think the answer is yes, you just don’t know me well enough.  My theory is, if I have to put it back, I get to put it where I please.

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Art.  Plein air art, in fact

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My theory is, if I have to put it back, I get to put it where I please.

Tales of Pasta and Terror

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How bad of me to skimp on recounting my recent visit to Austin and the charming Diane von Austinburg.  We had a lovely, lovely time.  Our definition of “lovely” might not match up with other’s, but do we care?  No, we do not.

Essentially the visit consisted of us visiting many of the finer thrift stores in town and canvassing their aisles while keeping up a running diss of their merchandise.  Or “merchandise.”  To quote myself from several previous times “This all looks like the leftovers from a bad garage sale.”  But that’s the best part.  We examine a mind numbing array of the chipped and should-have-been-discarded, items of dubious function, and what we were sure was the contents of hundreds of dead grannies’ homes, shoveled into the Goodwill maw by their undeserving heirs and then we don’t buy a single thing.

I did fall sort of in love with a love seat upholstered in a velour Union Jack.  Fortunately, Diane was there to quietly steer me away even as I was scheming how to ship it here, to an apartment where there is absolutely no room for it.

And then we went out for enchiladas.  Oh, such good Mexican food.  High class fare from interior Mexico, low class Tex-Mex in a joint that had started out life as a laundrymat, and a great place we love with such delicious tortillas.

Of course it was not all beat up Pottery Barn rejects and guacamole.  After all, there has to be some low point.  Who would have dreamed it would turn out to be pasta?

I was staying the very fancy Fairmont hotel.  It was excellent.  When I made the reservation, I signed up for their benefits program, which I always do wherever I stay.  Usually it’s not much, maybe a free bottled water  (Whoo-Hoo) but this time it turned out to be a goldmine, baby.  From a private registration desk (oh, right this way, Mr. mrpeenee,) and this cool concierge lobby with snacks of a most delicious nature (a dessert bar at night with these adorable miniature French pastries.  Another six cream puffs?  Why, I think I will.)   And a big, comfortable room.  What more could you ask for?

Well, that’s where the pasta comes in.  Diane works nearby and had come to meet me after I checked in.  We hit the Happy Hour snack bar and should have just stuck with that, but instead decided to slide downstairs to their real restaurant and have real food.

The dining room had a theme, which in my experience is never a good idea.   If you’re a restaurant, your theme should be “food.”  Instead, this place had the walls lined with fake facades of an old timey Texas town.  I think?  It was hard to tell.   It was very Disneyland. I was willing to ignore it and hang with Diane, but I ordered pasta carbonara and that’s where the real trouble came in.

Perhaps you are familiar with pasta carbonara?  It is one of the simple dishes that is not easy.  It consists of eggs, bacon and cheese over pasta.  The secret is how you add the ingredients, but I’m not here to give away my culinary secrets, I am here to gripe.

We both got our dinners eventually and started in while chatting.  After a few bites, i realized my pasta was missing the bacon.  Called the waitress over, explained, she took it back to the kitchen, reemerged with (possibly) a new plate, which I poked around in and announced, “This is the same thing, there’s no bacon is this either.”  She valiantly offered to make another run at it, but she had a look on her face, a look I have myself worn at times, a look that said “The chef is a screaming, egomaniacal lunatic, please don’t send me back in there.”  So I just said never mind, take it off the check, we’re fine.

Despite that, before I could finish stealing most of Diane’s excellent Asian pot thing, a manager type slithered over with a third bowl of the pasta.  You’ll never guess what was not in there!  As she was standing there, I demonstrated my now honed technique for bacon hunting.  “The chef says it’s called ‘pancetta’ and he slices it very finely.”  The whole “pancetta not bacon” pushed my blood level up a few notches and I offered her 20 bucks if she could find any of this finely sliced pancetta.  Sliced on a microscopic level, I don’t know.  I did explain the dish only had three ingredients, it seemed difficult to overlook one of them.

I waved it away.  Diane approved, noting that by then, one of the ingredients no doubt included spit.  She went home and I went back up to the fancy guests’ lobby and to wait for the dessert bar.

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mrpeenee asks “Where’s the meat?”

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…and the universe answers

peenee Henge

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mrpeenee’s personal street light

My living room is a triangle walled in enormous windows which makes one more conscious (or as conscious as I ever am) of the light and the way it shifts and settles in the room.   I was wandering around the apartment in my charmingly vague way the other evening when I realized the setting sun had become perfectly aligned with those windows to shoot all the way down the crooked hallway that leads to the front door.  It was like something of out of Raiders of the Lost Something or the Other.

I know in New York a similar phenomenon of the setting sun lining up with the east-west streets is called Manhattenhenge, so I’m stealing that for my own little almost-solstice-but-not-quite celebration.  Since I ignore Christmas, it seems very handy.

I was going to try to take a picture of it tonight, but, of course, it decided to rain instead.  I’m all right with that.  After those weeks of choking smoke, having our brisk clean air back is an immense relief.  Plus, sitting up here in my aerie, looking down out at the fog settling on the tops of hills, the streets shiny with rain, The street lights and traffic lights all glittering and reflecting, and the pedestrians scurrying along with their floppy umbrellas, it all seems terribly cozy.  A ginger cat curled firmly up on my lap helps.

An added charm: the street lights here are old timey ones, cast to look like lanters.  I’ve always admired their solid 19th century charm and now I have one directly outside and I happen to be on the exact floor that puts the lantern part right out my window.  I think of it as MY  street light, much as a hooker chasing other bitches off her patch would.

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Let me reiterate: I like’em big and stupid.

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But having cozy little digs could only be improved by having more than a ginger tabby to lean on.

Tie Finish

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Back in the day when I had a job (and what a satisfying way to start a sentence that is) I had to wear a tie to work every day.  I had nightmares of being choked by them.  Eventually I threw off the yoke of a necktie by simply not wearing one.  I extended my Casual Friday wardrobe to the entire week and my Fridays turned into One Step Above Slob Friday.

Even then, I would periodically have to show up at some event with something knotted around my neck.  R man didn’t have to wear one to his job, but he loved to buy them for me.  And I have to admit, a tableful of neckwear arranged tidily by Nordstrom or Saks or the like, is a lovely experience.  They’re so pretty and jewel-like.  By the time he died and I retired, I had quite a collection.   Then I moved and in packing up I realized I was never going to wear a single one of them again.

And so I put an ad in Craigslist announcing I was looking for someone to make a quilt out of them for me.  I got a surprising number of eager replies including one from the second place winner in quilting at the Marin County State Fair.  That was good enough for me and so she came and scooped them up and went off to do her quilting magic.

Time went by, as it does, and she would send me messages about the progress.  I would reply something along the lines of “That’s nice.”  Then she popped up last night, quilt in hand.

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Shine on, you crazy diamond.

It really is gorgeous, shimmering and with the individual squares of the cut up ties cleverly placed to cohabit esthetically with its neighbor.

I slept under it last night, of course, and was surprised at its texture.  I had vaguely thought it would be supple and, well, silky, but I had forgotten ties have to be made with a heavy silk with lots of body so that the knot will be nice and substantial.  That means the quilt itself is stiffer than I had imagined, but not at all uncomfortable.  It has a flannel backing so it’s very warm.  Snuggy.

I had considered saving one tie in case of funerals, but should that sad obligation arise, I can always nip into any thrift store and have my pick them for a couple of bucks.   Or I might return to Nordstrom’s and those shining reefs of sartorial splendor.

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This man is not wearing a tie.

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Nor is this one.

 

 

Consumer Electronic peenee

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I was making my way up Market Street, headed, as usual, to Walgreens to fight with the pharmacists, as usual, for my meds.  Those girls have developed the instincts of a cobra from years of turning back junkie forays into prescription drugs.  I kept thinking where did all these people come from and why are they IN MY WAY?  I finally realized it was Saturday, something that doesn’t really matter to those of us in the retirement field.  And a lovely, sunny Saturday to boot.  No wonder everyone had turned out, but why do they have to turn out in my path?  Who knows?  Get out of my way.

After defeating Walgreens (natch,) I had to make a grocery store run.  Yes, I am almost cooking again.  “Almost” because I was breaking in a brand new crock pot.  I have never owned one before.  I always figured if you have a stove and a pot, what’s the point?  But now that I have been marooned in an apartment with an electric stove, which I hate so much, I refuse to acknowledge it as an actual cooking device, I have discovered their (possibly) usefulness.  As I said, this is the first thing I’ve cooked in it, so we’ll see.

Also, I now realize the pot I bought is designed for one of those giant suburban families that need 6 quarts of lentils.  This is a monster that would do Alice of the Brady Bunch proud.

And I bought an air purifier in hopes that it might deal with the ambient cat hair.  There are great drifts of it everywhere here.  I think my old place was so big, you didn’t especially notice there was enough loose fur around that you could have knitted a brand new cat.   In my new apartment, it’s just me, the cat and all his discarded hair.  How he can lose so much and not be bald is beyond me.

So, the little purifier works great.  I have it in my bedroom and as soon as I step out of the door there, I can tell a difference.  I immediately start wiping my nose and choking.  I knew Saki has been trying to kill me for years, I just never suspected he was doing it by means of air control suffocation.

The purifier has a little colored light on it to indicate the quality of the air, blue is good, purple not so hot, and red is bad.  It’s like a mood ring.  It pretty much stays a lovely, cool blue, but whenever I walk directly past it, it turns red.  Bitch.  I have been dissed by better appliances than you.  I don’t care.  Suck up the cat hair and get to work slacker.

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Look! It’s our old friend Gianfranco looking all photoshopped and pretty.

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I do love a good blonde bitch bottom.

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Ah, the mystery, the allure of a big fat, half exposed wiener.

The New and Improved Healthier mrpeenee

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I was at Walgreen’s in the middle of Castro and sort of out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of this gorgeous classic California Surfer Boy.  Sunkissed gold skin and shaggy blonde hair, studying the Gatorade cooler with no shirt on.  Gasp.  As I turned for a better look, I realized the security rent a cop was hovering awfully nearby and closer inspection revealed a homeless guy with no shirt in board shorts.  I had obviously forgotten there are no beach boys indigenous to San Francisco.

Still, flawless tan, blonde hair.  A good wash and rinse and hide all your valuables and he’s probably do OK.  Reminds me of an old Romeo Void song (and whatever happened to them?  Probably homeless in a Walgreens.) that I always thought was called “I might like you better if we slept together” and was somewhat a cri de coeur of mine and which included considering fucking some transient with the line “He’d be warm in your coat….”

In order to keep the Walgreen’s security force from eyeing me in the same manner, I am attempting a more healthful, or at least less ridiculous, life. I have been all too casual about staying in bed 24 hours a day and only eating pills. It was a salute to Valley of the Dolls, and look how that turned out. So now, I’m back to eating salads every day and forcing myself out into the wide, wide world.

The trouble with all that is when you feel weak and vaguely crummy, the knowledge that getting out of bed and moving around will help is clearly understood, but that doesn’t really help get me through the “get out of bed” part of the equation.

What I really need are two big mens to lift me gently out of the supine and dress me and push me out the door.  Again, gently.

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These guys seem cooperative.  That’s important.

Men Don’t Make Passes

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I have mentioned I am an idiot before, haven’t I?  I use fancy big words, occasionally correctly, but I am actually a loon.  My new location means that I don’t have to drive hardly at all.  Groceries, drug store, cafe, crazy lady screaming and exposing her genitals, all within easy walking distance.  I have a fabulous painting Super Agent Fred did of Catherine Deneuve I wanted framed, so this afternoon I took it to the framer with the best reviews in the city and who is literally right around the corner.

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Not this, but equally as arresting.

On the odd occasion that I have had to hit the road, I noticed my vision has once again gotten worse.  Considering how incredibly myopic I am, it seems almost impossible for it to decline any further, but no.  And it seemed to have happened unusually quickly.  Street signs remained stubbornly out of focus,  bumperstickers continued to be a closed mystery to me, and I kept assuring myself that last bump was just more of San Francisco’s lack of infrastructure maintenance and not some unfortunate pedestrian.  I gave in and got new glasses.  Actually new lenses in the frames I’ve had for 20 years now because I like them and it saves me the bother of picking out a new pair.  In fact, I liked them so much, years ago I bought second pair.  Now I get new lenses to replace the oldest one and what were the new ones become the backups.

If you are not bothered by impaired vision, you will never know the thrill of putting on a new pair of glasses.  The world spring into crystalline perfect focus. You realize the person you’ve been addressing as Super Agent Fred is in fact a young woman who has no idea why you continue to bother her.  The universe becomes a place you can see.

I was delighted right up until I tried to use my computer andI was back to the world of blurry.  That was when I remembered that a couple of years ago, when last I got new glasses, the charming doctor suggested I get a pair for the odd distance that computer screens tend to sit at.

When I wear my contact lenses I put on reader glasses to read (duh) or dab at the computer.  If I had on my glasses, I would put the readers on over them, a look that is guaranteed to draw stares from your more fashionable companions.  His point was to have one pair for long distance and one for using a screen.  I agreed with him, got the glasses and promptly forgot about them.

As I recalled this, I realized that in the chaos of moving over here, I had somehow stumbled on my computer glasses and been wearing them, simply more out of focus than usual.  Luckily the frames I handed over to have new lenses were actually my long distance ones, so now they are doing a fabulous job of letting me see what is going on around me.

And my computer glasses are typing this right now.  And I am an idiot.

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Is this boy an Idiot?  Possibly.  Would anyone care?  Care about what?