In Which We Suffer Yet Another Birthday

 

There are times when I sit down to write my latest hilarious blog and I discover I have absolutely no idea about what to write. I turn to the mrpeenee Automatic Post Topic generator and all I get is static.  Goddamit.  Surely I can come up with something to complain about, but no, I get no traction.  And then I remember, fuck this. I cannot get fired, I am my own boss, I am the master of my fate.

But while sulking about my absolute lack of ideas, and how my blog is an utter task master, and how I really want to drag it behind the barn and shoot the mother fucker, I remembered that I had not celebrated mrpeenee's anniversary this year.  My blog's actual birthday is July 24, 2007 anno domini and every single year I am amazed to have passed yet another milestone (see "drag it behind the barn and shoot it.")

Nineteen years is an impressive record for someone with as little attention span as I have. When I started down this ridiculous path, I certainly had no idea I would stick around this long. My blog has outlived my husband, several cats, David Bowie, and frequently my will to write. If it weren't for the nekkid guys segment of each post I don't know how I would go on. 

Mike Betts, still my favorite nekkid guy.

Every year as part of my anniversary salute, I pause to remember fellow bloggers who started out about the same time as me.  There used to be a whole pack of us, but as blogging turned into a quaint novelty, almost all of them have dropped off. Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter, the Mistress from Mistress Borghese, and Inexplicable Device from Inexplicable Device, are the few, the happy few still sticking it out. Tough old birds all and I lift a glass to salute them. Some who didn't make it this far are actually no longer on this side of the grass (LX, Kabuki Zero) and others simply wandered off out of this land of make-believe (Jason, Mean Dirty Pirate, the Cool Cookie, Cafe Muscato, and the much missed Fabulon). Mitten Drinnen, aka Norma Desmond remains as a frequent commenter and Mistress Infomaniac is a ghostly, ghastly specter who only rises from her grave once a year on her blogiversary. Whether you're still here or not, I remember you all with great fondness.

So anyway here's to mrpeenee, the finest blog on this page.  Long may I wave.

And now back to our regularly scheduled nekkid guys:

I occasionally run across porn sites that focus on tickling. The whole idea never fails to strike me as incredibly unlikely. Here we have Italian side o' beef, Marco Pinotti getting the treatment.

I realize I don't give enough attention to the species known as daddies, so here is Alex Tikas.

Whachoo looking at?

 

He's got a package for you.

Surf's up

The warm weather has meant the action below my window on the sidewalk, always lively, has been particularly raucous, including some guy on Wednesday night about 11 o'clock playing the bagpipes.

He was pretty good, you know, for bagpipes, but the whole thing was so unlikely, I was very tempted to put on my pants and go downstairs and ask him "what the fuck?"

But a lifetime living in the big city reminded me to mind my own business.

I want to fuck this guy so bad it's sort of annoying.

In Which We Celebrate

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In Which We Blog

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In Which We Return

 

If you look below this post, you'll see that the last post I put up here on Blogger is a sniffy little tirade about how I will NEVER darken these doors again.  Back then, 7 years ago, Blogger had just threatened a ban on adult content and I was not interested in picking up what they were putting down so I skedaddled. And yet, here I am back, tail between my legs.  So who could have put my tail there?  Blogger's competitor WordPress, to whom I had fled all those years ago, that's who.

A couple of weeks ago I got a terse message from WordPress announcing that I had been busted for posting "sexually explicit material" and that my blog would therefore be suspended.  Pissy bitches. And by suspended, they actually meant deleted.  I had no access to my own blog or any way to contact my followers.  They did let me download a file of my posts, but that turned out to just be lines of code.  Thanks to my fellow blogger Scarlet, from Wonky Words  and Mags from 63 mago, I got my hands on a converter that shook out the code into something more legible, but even that was just the text with no pictures and none of the comments, which were my favorite part.  Insult to injury, the posts are jumbled up out of order.

So 7 years of work, gone.  I am keenly aware of how unimportant this blog is, but to me, it was a kind of diary; if I wondered what I was doing 3 years ago, for instance, I could always dip in to the archives and find out.  The loss of it and the futile hassle I went through trying to retrieve it left me frustrated and sad for the last few days, but I have decided to just shake it off and move on.  I hope I'm not being bitter when I say WordPress has decided it is no longer content with being a platform for blogging and now wants to be a host for commercial websites so even before I got kicked off I didn't actually fit in anymore. Anyway, here I am back where I started, me and my smutty little blog.

Some of that material they found so distasteful:

Who could object to such tasteful and tasty Muscle Pussy?

One of my favorite pictures EVER, and now in color.

The always alluring Blake Clunes.

Another long-time favorite, tragically, an anonymous one.

Teasey in red.

"Yeah, everybody says it's big...."

Surely, people standing in line behind him must occasionally just squeeze that.

Next to godliness, baby.

How do you navigate through life with an ass like that?

Emilio Contento, costarring his massive titties.

Bonne Année et Bonne Santé

I went off to Peet's Cafe this afternoon for a cup o' joe and some tasty bit and when I'd finished, I wandered off to the restroom to return the coffee, so to speak.  Of course it was occupied, so I waited and waited.  And WAITED.  Usually that's bad sign because Peet's, although dear to my heart, is a regular on the homeless guy circuit and any occupancy this long almost always concludes with some bag lady, having finished god knows what, wandering out leaving a pungent aftermath.

Thankfully, though, this time it was a mousy and respectable looking asian man who handed me the key without making eye contact and then scurried off.  I stepped in and was faced with a sort of still life: the wrapper from a moist toilette directly in front of the toilet and about halfway between it and the trash can, the corn husk from a tamale.  I wondered briefly what story all this implied, but then immediately knew that I didn't really want to know.   I peed, washed my hands and kicked the detritus into more discreet positions so the guy in line behind me wouldn't think they were mine.  You need to think about things like that in a small town.

I have no idea what tamales and toilettes have to do with this post, I was actually going to write about how I hoped this would get up before midnight and thus bolster my anemic count of entries for December.   I have three this year.  In 2008, my most prolific year, I had 18.  I keep saying I'm going to do better, afterall, I'm not doing anything else.  But then the cat or porn or, most often, slacker sloth gets in the way and suddenly there are no posts magically appearing.

I'm sure it's not apparent, but I put thought into these gems of deathless prose.  Some anyway.  Frequently, I'll get stuck struggling with the exact word I want tantalizing out of reach.  Maybe those this-is-your-brain-on-drugs ads were right; whatever.  So I'll wander off trying to come up with the word "judicial" or "soliloquy" and come back later only to realize the whole thing is hash, delete it and start all over.  Or go watch porn.  It happens.

Tonight though, I was determined to force something out, however hashish, since I'm located on the Pacific Coast and thus of all my little blog friends, I'm pretty much the last one left here in 2014.  Unless there's some lurker from Guam out there, and how likely is that?  And you'll be reading this in 2015.  It's like a really, really slow time machine!  With crappy spell check.

So anyway here is my last muscle pussy of the year (and a particularly demure one at that) and possibly your first one of the new

Happy New Year.

In Which mrpeenee Returns

Cause mrpeenee likes to be stylin' when he's suffering through airport purgatory.

People of Earth, I know what very few posts I am able to scratch up here have lately turned into two flavors:

• I'm going to New Orleans
• I just got back from New Orleans.

This time I just skipped the "I'm going to New Orleans" part and I'm here to report I'm back.  Surely you missed me.  And was the old place charming as ever?  Why yes, yes it was.  Thanks for asking.  I had a great deal (possibly excessive) of deliciousness, including duck gumbo at a fancy place and shrimp remoulade at a decidedly not fancy place dear to my evil little heart.

I also got to hang out in a bar called Lafitte's for their Tired Old Disco Night with Jason from Night is Half Gone.  Too fabulous, I only wish you could have been there.  The old darling really is charming, you know.  He assures us all the miscreants he teaches are wild for Beowulf this semester.  I'm skeptical, but he swears it.

He and I are were able to impress Secret Agent Fred with our in-depth knowledge of the song One Night in Bangkok.  I thought everyone knew it was from some odd Broadway musical named Chess about a real chess tournament held, logically, in Bangkok and written by the ABBA guys.  Didn't you?

Fred brought along his boyfriend (yes, it's true, he's off the market.  Sorry.) who's very fond of a snort or two so when Fred got bored standing around my house there watching me enthuse over drywall installation, I could send them off for drinkies and everyone was happy.

I particularly was happy because, at long last, drywall has been hung and you can now actually see the shape and size of the rooms.  Big, big yay.

before

After, with the new exterior paint and the dumpster box out front which has apparently become a neighborhood fixture.

The back rooms before all the walls were ripped out to make one huge ass room.

  

Huge ass room

Huge ass ceiling of huge ass room.  And get off that beam, I paid too much for you to use it as a catwalk.

Out with Friends

Secret Agent Fred and I went out for drinks and, eventually, pizza with longtime mrpeenee commenter Salty Miss Jill the other night.  She had blown in from the big city and I was delighted to meet her: she is both salty and sweet and I like meeting the people who bestir themselves to comment here.  It makes their sassy insolence seem more heartfelt.  Plus did I mention she was charming?  We wound up in the bar for a couple of hours talking blogger talk.  SMJ has allowed her blog to fall fallow and I was encouraging her to hit the keyboard once again.  I think there are just never enough amusing bloggers out there.  How else am I supposed to waste my time?

Also, she revealed that she had a waitressing past with teeny-tiny pornster Samuel Colt, which I think alone requires extensive blog coverage.

Super Seven

What do you mean it's August?  The hell?   How do these things happen?

It's true I've been rather distracted lately by hosting guests for their own wedding and visiting New Orleans on a retail spree and competing with the cats to see who can sleep the most in one day, but that doesn't excuse missing two important (to me, and who else counts?) anniversaries in July.

The first was Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat's birthday, his seventh, on July 7.  Yes, 7/7/07 and now it's number seven, so maybe this year will be lucky for him.  Having ripped up both white leather chairs in the living room, he is now turning his attention to converting the back guest room into a spare cat box, so he's probably going to need all the luck he can get if I catch him pooping in there one more time.

And my blog, this title piece of heaven, also turned seven a few days ago, but again, I was sleeping, so, oops.  In case you wondering, here is the first post, from all those long years ago:

But who is mrpeenee?
I’m a nice guy, that’s who. I hide it successfully under a mask of brittle bitterness, but I would be happy to save orphan kittys and old ladies from burning buildings if I just weren’t so darn busy downloading porn and staring out the window. My long suffering lover, R Man, and I live in San Francisco where I work for the federal government making wildly inaccurate statements to the press and running the training program for entrepreneurs for the SBA here. I am occasionally surprised to realize how respectable I am.

I grew up in Texas, but never understood what white trash I am until I left. How was I supposed to know nice people didn’t put mayonnaise on their French fries?

I gotta go.

So seven years later and all I've learned is how to include photos of muscly young men.  Hmm.

Blah Blah Blogging

I've spent much too long this evening trying to pull together some kind of post about spending the afternoon in the war zone Castro Street has turned into

(construction has ripped up the streets and sidewalks like a gutted fish forcing you to navigate these narrow temporary corridors fenced in on all sides.  It's like being stuck inside Thunderdome.)  Frustration with getting anything more than that parenthetical news bulletin reminds me of one of my favorite Dorothy Parker quotes:

“I hate writing, I love having written.” 

Not so much block as complete desolation, I can't think of anything or how to say it if I do think of it. I start to wonder if English is really my first language.  Would I have better luck in Urdu?

Besides, what is blogging anymore but a quaint and dying hobby much like tatting?  One by one, most of the blogs I used to read that, like mine, were first person accounts of how the blogger got along with their maddening (fill in the blank: spouse, job, addiction, cat, whatev) have all pretty much slipped beneath the waves, leaving me and a few other ranting souls, wearing our tinfoil hats and carrying on.  Having a blog used to be hip, and then it was trite, and now it's sort of musty.

So I decided to redecorate, hence the new background and header photo and other snappy touches.   Also, looking up the Dorothy Parker quote (in order to get it actually correct.  I'm pissy that way.  I also don't use "comprised" when I mean "composed."   Pissy.) I found a quote of hers that was unfamiliar to me, and which I've decided to use as my new cri de coeur:

“Heterosexuality is not normal, it's just common.” 

Who ya gonna call when you need snipers removed from your tastefully decorated crime scene?
SWAT BUSTERS!

Celebrate

Let's celebrate, bitches.The weather here is balmy with partly clothed boys popping up everywhere.  Saki the cat got out, but came back and his new vet's stunning good looks are absurdly like what a soap opera veterinarian would be cast with.   Jason  is still puny, but didn't die.  Yet.  So Celebration.

Not last, Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore sold finally and the check is, as they say, in the mail.  This whole ordeal has been bruising and the only reason we got through it was  Ask the Cool Cookie who has dealt with months of madness, mayhem, mould and contractors.  He is, as his people would say, a mensch.

The very last day as the deal was stumbling through the byzantine process of unloading a house, a mystery line of credit popped up and we had to scramble to deal with it cause unless it was closed, no deal.

Fred had taken to his bed at his apartment, like some frail in a mediocre Tennesse Wiliams' play and was not answering his phone.  I wound up begging a friend of ours, Rascal, who has a key to Tim's building and lives nearby, to go over a roust the little miscreant and urge him to call the realtor ASAP. It's possible I also might have dropped a hint that kicking Fred could be a swell idea, but I don't know how all that went over.

I do know the incredibly patient realtor emailed this afternoon to confirm the check is on its way.

Also, chez peenee's back yard is winding up for what looks like a stunning late spring.

So celebrate.  Now is the time, this is place.