In Which mrpeenee Struggles with the World of Internet Commerce

You are now connected to Amazon from Amazon.com

Me:On August 26, I had a chat session about the whirlpool bathtub I ordered. The person I chatted with claimed someone from "large purchases" would get back to me in 24 hours. It's been a week, no contact, so a) what's with that and b) where's my bathtub?

Amazon:Hello Gary, my name is Natally and I'm so sorry to hear that we where supposed to contact you and we didn't and the fact that you don't have your bathtub, let me see how i can help you

Me:great

Amazon:just to verify the address we are supposed to send this bathtub is blah blah blah

right?

Me:yes

Amazon:thank you, Gary please wait for me just a moment while i review your account really quick

Ok Gary, thank you for your patience, I actually need to connect you with one of my colleagues from the concierge dept because of the price of this bathtub, please hold while I connect you.

Gary are you there?

Me:yeah, it's not like I'm going to take a bath or anything.

Amazon:Thank you Gary just a moment

A Customer Service Associate will be with you in a moment.

You are now connected to Ben from Amazon.com

Ben:Hello!

Me:hi

Ben:I'm sorry that you have not gotten your bathtub yet, let me pull this order up and we'll see what's going on.

It looks like we are still working on acquiring the inventory to ship it out to you.

Me:what does that mean? I ordered this on July 19. When is the tub getting here.

Ben:We currently do not know. We're working on getting the inventory. It looks like it was out of stock when ordered and we've not been able to get another one quite yet. I'm sorry.

Me:It took amazon a month and a half to realize it was out of stock, I contacted you once already, and you're just now getting around to mentioning this?

Ben:I'm very sorry, from what I'm seeing on the details of the order, this was out of stock when you ordered it.

We did send you an update shortly after the order with an expected time that we could get this out to you. That was between August 18th and September 11th. I know that's a very long window, but when we're not sure when we're going to actually get them in, that does tend to happen.

Me:I'd like to point out Sept. 11 is nine days away. Are you saying the tub will be here then?

Ben:I cannot guarantee that, as it does not look like we've found a supplier yet, but it is not outside of the realm of possibilities. To be very honest, I doubt it.

Me:So, to summarize: Amazon's customer guarantees are worthless.

Ben:Not typically, but unfortunately in this case, it looks like we might actually not be able to make that date.

I can happily look into what's going on and why it's taking so long.

Of course, if you would like to cancel the order and go somewhere else, I'd completely understand.

Me:"Looking into it and finding out why it's taking so long" would be swell. In fact, many customers would assume that is what you would be already doing.

Ben:On the customer service end, that's not something that we generally handle. That's taken care of by our vendor managers and others in the procurement teams. But since I want to help you, I will do what I can to get you an answer, since they have not updated you.

Me:I'm in New Orleans. I can get a voodoo doll with "Procurement team" written on it without breaking a sweat and I suspect it would be just about as much help.

Ben:If that's what you feel you want to do, you're perfectly welcome to. I, on the other hand, am going to actually try to be helpful, if that's ok with you.

Me:Go to it. And reel in the snark while you're at it.

Ben:Honestly sir, I could say the exact same to you, but I did not mean to be snarky, so I apologize.

I'm typing up an email to the vendor manager in charge of that department.

Me:I look forward to hearing what you discover.

Ben:Would you prefer email or phone?

Me:email is fine. My address is mrpeenee@yahoo.com.

Ben:Awesome. I'll reach out to you as soon as I hear anything. I'm sorry that this is taking so long to get to you.

Me:Thank you and good day.

Hoofing It Down to the Land of Dreamy Dreams

Secret Agent Fred and I have decided to invade New Orleans for Mardi Gras, 2014.  I know the last time I went there for Carnival, I swore I wouldn't go again because visiting the madness is so much less fun than actually living there for it, but I've reached an age when repeating my mistakes is a charming quirk, so here we go.

First step: make hotel reservations, which is not easy during the highest of high seasons.  Second step: wonder if simply buying a house there wouldn't be cheaper, considering what hotel rooms run during Mardi Gras.  Third step:  start sopping for shoes for my costume.

Footwear has always been problematic for me and my costumes.  I get all the other pieces together and suddenly my Converse tennis shoes are just not cutting it.  Even if I don't do drag, I might still want to wear high heels, cause they're so gay.   Still, you'd be surprised how puny is the selection of ladies size 15 pumps.

And how ugly they are.

I'm thinking about boots and am willing to consider input from you guys.

The fucsia, third from Right, are particularly fetching

Brooding about my feet just reminds me of a long ago Southern Decadence when I was back there for a visit and had to rustle up something in a hurry.

My friend Rich let me borrow his red wig (I know not everyone can pull off that Titianesque shade, I'm just lucky that I can really rock it)

and that tired old Merry Widow bustier has long been my go-to for a quick get up, but even with fishnets, the whole thing sort of skids to a sorry halt with those white mules, which Rich described as "Nancy Nurse on vacation."  Bitch.

That same giddy afternoon included a tragedy when another friend, Cow Queen, accidentally knocked off my wig (at least, he claims it was an accident) outside some not-very-nice bar on Rampart Street.  I certainly was not going to take that and so, CATFIGHT, which thrilled onlookers no end.

Later he tried to suck up, but between a wig on the sidewalk and those shoes, I was just mortified.

That's why I'm leaning towards boots, boots with which I can kick the shit out of somebody.

What do you think?

Junkie

Safeway late on Sunday night: read it and weep, bitches.  I go there so you need not.  Actually I go there because I like to take vicodin with seltzer water which means I go through quite a lot of the stuff and I find Safeway's in-house brand, the charmingly ludicrously named "Refreshe", to be my favorite. I pronounce it with an exaggerated semi-French accent.

Speaking of Safeway brands and the fall of civilization, the company has invaded the home turf of stoner junkies everywhere by coming out with their own line of fine, fine snack products ripoffs.  It's called the Snack Artist and it reproduces well known and beloved junk foods.  I can personally attest to the quality of their version of Cheetos.  I don't know what chemical crap makes up the yellow-y orange dust that clings to your fingers like super glue after you've put away a pound or two of them, but man are they tasty.

Less fortunate is the crack they took at Lil Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.  I'm sure you remember how distraught we all were when the Hostess Baking Company went tits up and the source for those chocolate cake rolls with cream filling (and let's be honest; every word in that phrase should be enclosed in ironic quotation marks: "chocolate"  "cream") was cut off.  I was thrilled to run across Safeway's attempt to fill the void, but valiant as it might be, the result is simply lackluster.

Still, I plan on working my way through the entire line of potato chips of many lands, tortilla chips in every conceivable flavor and ersatz Twinkies.  The only drawback (aside from possible death by junk food) is that moment at the checkout stand when you sheepishly empty your cart and you feel that everybody, the cashier chica, the bag boy, the lesbian in line behind you, is judging you based on what you're buying.  In my case, this consists of 12 two liter bottles of seltzer and enough garbage snack to feed a small dormitory of stoner boys.  And a bunch of bananas like some pathetic attempt at healthful living.

Also, expanding on my much updated post below about Spotify, I have given up and switched back to Pandora which, I think to punish me for cheating on her, insists on playing long swatches of The Smiths.  ENOUGH, already!  It's like living with a morose teenage girl.  Let me know when Roxy Music comes on.

Groceries and Drama

So very much NOT what mrpeenee's Friday night looked like.

Secret Agent Fred and I caught up over lunch on Friday, discussing the political conventions, ramifications of our on-going struggle against the patriarchal norm and why they were so few cute boys out in the Castro.  Afterwards, we considered going out for drinks (always an amusing prospect with Fred,) but I was feeling feeble and my back achey, so I begged off and offered to drive him over to his boyfriend's house.  Fred has been staying there on and off over the last few months and renting his own stylish pied a terre on Air BnB.  It's been working well, Fred needs the money and tourists get the thrill of crashing in Fred's studio.  Fred will assure you, very firmly, he's located not in the the Tenderloin, but on the fringe of Nob Hill, sort of the Tender Nob, heehee.

So we went wheeling off to the boyfriend's place and on the way there, I recalled the new Whole Foods had just opened, sort of nearby and I dragged Fred off for an inspection.  Too late, I realized I had traded Fred's suggestion of an evening of society and high life for one consisting of grocery shopping.  I know that awful harridan MJ from Infomaniac is always harping on what a musty old fussbudget I am, but never had I been forced to see how close to the truth she might be until the evening found us yukking it up in the produce aisle.  I saw myself as just one fluffy miniature poodle short of truly becoming a creaky Old Mary.

On the bright side, they had nectarines on sale.

After we checked out, I ferried Fred on over to Duane's and came home to brood.  How had I, the terror of French Quarter cocksuckers during the reign of Depeche Mode, turned into such a frump?  Turned out I didn't have long to think about it cause Fred called to announce he had broken up with his boyfriend and needed a place to stay.  So now we have house guests, Saki and I, which is fine with me, I adore Fred, but Saki is so not feeling the love about Fred's cat.

I know from experience the best role in breakups is to be supportive, but to try not to vent about how you always knew the ex was no good and sort of fatuous and dressed funny.  As soon as you go down that road, reconciliations on their part become so uncomfortable.  I remain loving and nonjudgmental.  Saki just wants the brown bedroom with its attached bath back as part of his territory.

Also, let me be clear Fred seems to be doing OK with all this, sad, but not heartbroken.  Apparently it's been in the works for a while and I know it's always easier to be the dumper than the dumped.  Still, I worry that this is all my fault.  Am I to blame for exposing Fred to the fast lane life of Whole Food's baked goods department?  The timing seems terribly fraught.

Do-It-Yourself Smut

Before we get to details about the lovely trips to New Orleans and Austin, about which I'm sure you're all waiting breathlessly, mrpeenee has reports of technology triumphs. Specifically, the schmancy new printer I bought and installed this afternoon.

Close readers of this blog will know I like porn. Yes, it's true, muscley mens sporting their bits are one of my all-time faves. Since I am also a dinosaur, rather than computer images, I prefer hard copy at hand (you get it? "Hard copy" "At hand?" Oh, never mind.)

Now that the internet is pretty much the only source for filthy pictures, and what a boon it is, I needed a printer to transfer them to paper. My stupid little HP Ink Splatterer was not cutting the mustard so Secret Agent Fred and I whirled off to one of the big box stores that everyone rails against so shrilly and scored a sweet little Epsom bad boy.

And speaking of big box stores, is there some quaint little mom-and-pop tech provider I could have gone to instead? Don't think so and I live a fairly big town. Anyway.

Then, installation, which I actually like. Meticulously unwrapping the components appeals to my most OCD mental defects and being able to follow directions written for the mentally challenged whose first language is not English and who, in fact, may not even have a first language makes me feel a small step below Stephen Hawking.

And then, et voila, our first effort rolled out effortlessly and perfectly, crisp with brilliant colors. It was a shot shared by Fred we like to call "Daddy Panties."

So now I got to go, cause I have a backlog to mow through, for research archival purposes only, I assure you.

I, I Who Have Dementia

I was at a very gay shop in the Castro buying birthday presents (we have a cloud of friends who were all born right around the middle of January so I snag presents by the bunch this time of year) and the soundtrack was playing a dynamite version of Shirley Bassey singing I, Who Have Nothing.

Our dear friend Kebbin has long claimed this as his signature song should he ever be forced into doing drag in public, which I think is a brilliant choice. I was thinking about that and smiling to myself when the shopboy, who I assume was in his 20s, but looked like he should have been in junior high, asked if I liked Dame Bassey. Of course, I said yes, and then asked if he knew the Tom Jones cover of this. "Tom Jones?" he responded blankly. I was going to explain, but I figured I didn't have time.

For those of you who remember a galaxy long ago and far away.

Big Box

I've mentioned before that any shopping not conducted at the grocery or Walgreen's does not thrill me, and those expeditions are rarely the high point of the day, even if they do result in cookies and Vicodin. So I buy all my clothes online and a new batch just showed up. I'm holding off on opening them until Christmas. Isn't that precious? I expect to be somewhat surprised with the contents since I have already forgotten what I bought. R Man, god love him, was never good at guessing what presents to get me and would simply demand a detailed list from me in November. And by detailed I mean not just "cashmere sweater, 1," but explicitly running down what color, size, and where he could get it.

Saki thinks the shipping is simply a superior way of getting wrapping paper and boxes for him to play in. He's a playah.

Lunch With the Girls

Part of my devotion to my new life as retiree/slacker/fuckoff is to study the even more rarefied climes of Ladies Who Lunch. To that end, my friend John and I went off to Nieman's in Union Square today for lunch. It was very entertaining and quite tasty. They always start you off with a tiny cup of bullion and a popover, which seems like an odd combination to me. I suppose the bullion is to buck up the Ladies after a trying morning in the Oscar de la Renta room, struggling with uncooperative shopgirls.

I have no idea what's with the popovers.

John has long asserted the point of these bacchanalia is to finish with the same amount of food on your plate as the kitchen sent out. Ideally, one just stirs the glop around while smoking and knocking back gimlets. Since I neither smoke nor drink, I couldn't rise to that level of virtuoso performance (it must take years of practice, don't you think?) but I did have chicken salad. It was perfectly fine.

The room was totally in synch with our fantasies. All the diners were either gay boys or old dears with good handbags. Fabulously enough, the woman at the table next to us was studying a brochure that seemed to focus on either botox or some other kind of decorative surgery.

Neiman's here sits on the site of an earlier upscale department store called City of Paris. I understand it was a Beaux Arte palace, but the only remains of it are it original atrium and the stained glass rotunda; that's where the restaurant is.

The renowned minimalist architect Philip Johnson whored himself out to design the palace's replacement. He's since called his work "an embarrassment" and who am I to argue with him? Plus, I think that's pretty much on the money. It went up in the early 80's when Johnson was wandering out of his sleek, glass boxes and into some very odd, sad choices influenced by the Memphis style and boy band hair-do's. The whole place is sheathed in big granite tiles on an angle, sort of harlequin-esque. In case you're wondering, that is not a good thing.

Still, at least local outrage forced them to keep the skylight. That kind of shotgun marriage of styles rarely works, and probably wouldn't here, except the new parts of the building are so blandly bad, the fussy gilded columns and stained glass are really all it has going for it.

That and popovers.

Shopping as Blood Sport

This spring has been terribly rainy here in San Francisco, consequently, the pollen has soared to almost unbearable levels, consequently, mrpeenee's sinuses have been flowing like Victoria Falls set on high, consequently, mrpeenee has been wiping and dabbing his nose (always with my handkerchief, I am a lady, I do lady things) like crazy mad, consequently, the side of said nose is chafed raw.

Not attractive, I know, but consider the scene set.

Super Agent Fred and I found the most ravishing mirror for my newly painted front hall last month in a joint called, charmingly, "Stuff." It was love at first sight. Baroque gilded extravagance, it calls out to my inner fussy old lady and runs completely contrary to my faltering policy of decorating my contemporary house with contemporary touches. It's also much too big for the space. Of course I had to have it.

We went back to the store today and were both struck once again by its beauty, as well as that of the salestwink working there. Why is flaxen hair, limpid blue eyes and a skinny ass such a darned fetching combination, anyway? I was so thrilled to find the mirror marked down 30 per cent (YAY) I absentmindedly rubbed the side of my nose, which promptly burst into a torrent of blood. Blood, blood, blood, lots of blood.

Of course the cute little sales guy was standing right there, managing to look both blank and horrified. He was obviously thinking "Queen. Do not bleed on my Good Stuff." All he said was "Do you need a paper towel?" I said yes, muffled through my handkerchief, and that I would take the mirror. He was impressed enough to bring me three paper towels. My plan to so electrify him with my big spending ways that he would be interested in putting out did not seem to overcome his horror of the hematoma, however.

Anyway, now I have the most gorgeous mirror in captivity. And a bandaid on the side of my nose. So very attractive.

Our salesbitch did not look this humpalicious, but then who does? Nevertheless, since Blogger feels compelled to label my blog as "adult," I feel the need to include attractive, scantily clad young men. I may be doing this for a while. Let me know if you get tired of it.

Silicone Based Love

Commenting on the post below, Ask the Cool Cookie urged me to shave and get out of the house and go do something, apparently in that order. I am always obedient to commands from cookies, so I did just that. Super Agent Fred and I were on the move at the crack of dawn, or possibly just after noon today. It looked like dawn to me. We went off to lunch (tasty,) browsed a fancy art supply store to look at $17 sheets of paper, and agreed to go see a Philip Glass opera on Sunday cause we're all fancy and stuff.

We also dropped back by my house for me to unload some random stuff on him like R Man's sketch pad and paper, a charming little dope pipe, and some clothes of Fred's that had been floating around here for a while. I also tried to talk him in to taking some old sex toys of R Man's, but he wasn't having it. Still, it's only your best friends on whom you can try to urge second hand naughty paraphernalia. By the way, if you're looking for a pair of cuffs lined in the finest of sheepskin fleece, let me know.

Speaking of equipment one doesn't run into at Macy's, I bought a new plaything with the horrendously accurate name of Fleshlight Jackass. I refuse to post a picture of it. There are limits which even I will not cross. If you're so fascinated, you can go look here. Is everybody back now? Good.

The poor little thing is supposed to be an artificial butthole. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, until they finally come up with the sex slave android I've been waiting for. And can I just say, it's the 21st century, still no Judy Jetson apartment buildings on elevated stilts, still no Howard Johnson's on the moon and still no Genuine Mario Lopez Model Sexbot™. What's with that?

For those of you considering the Fleshlight Jackass, let me just say "Lame." Wait for the sex androids and save your money, that's my advice. I'd say the closest approximation to the experience would be a handjob from some guy who's just had a stroke. Not that I would know. I'm just guessing.

Let me know when this rolls off the assembly line, m'kay?

Making Groceries

All I wanted was to pick up some milk, bread, oranges and several large bags of cookies. How was I to know Safeway was a stop-off for the casting call of Night of the Living Dead? Every single aisle blocked by shambling zombies IN MY WAY. Also, apparently, a bunch of tourists, foreign to our way of life, stunned by the splendor and majesty of the bagel selection. Look bitches, my list of Very Important Things To Do Right Now does not include standing stuck behind you while you ponder the attributes of different fish sticks.

Plus, while I appreciate Safeway organizing their stores into adorable sections like "Breakfast" and "Housewares" why do I always wind up with something I need that is hidden on the "Random Shit" aisle?

Clip Job

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The Mall. Dear God. The Mall.

What do I have in common with my heterosexual brethren? Aside from the fact we all like to stick our wieners in somebody's mouth? We all hate shopping. Hate, hate, hate it. In any form or fashion hate it. Not just Christmas - any time. I have mentioned, have not I, how thrilled I was to discover you can buy clothes at Costco. I would never venture beyond there and Walgreen's if I could help it. But Christmas rears its ugly head and I'm faced by my two problems: I love to give presents and I love to get them. I don't particularly care what's in them, I just thrill to the big, unopened pile of them, the mystery, the possibility of them.

So, that finds me this afternoon in Bloomingdale's, the nadir of a man's shopping experience. All I wanted was some shirts for R Man, but no, that's asking too much. I picked over racks of crappy, really expensive schmata that couldn't have announced more clearly its origin in slave labor sweatshops if it had a logo consisting of shackles and whip. All of it trying so very hard to be so very hip and failing miserably and all of it apparently targeted towards skateboarding suburban boys with mommy's credit card. And why on earth would that market be in Bloomingdale's? Even I, in my failing decripitude, could find a hipper store than that without breaking a sweat. The whole place seems to be shrieking "Weren't the 80s a bitchin' decade?" Well yes, but time to move on, darling, move on. And so I did, fleeing to the mall outside and running straight into a lounge area filled with middle aged guys parked there by their wives. I'm sure their glazed, bitter expressions mirrored my own. For an instant I was sorry not to have been straight, so I could have sent the little Missus off handling the shopping while I sat glumly thinking about porn. But then I remembered, you know, vaginas and all that. I decided it isn't worth it.

So here is the statement that truly reveals the depths of my stodgienss: "Thank god for the Docker's store." Well, it's better than Walgreen's.

Sunday in the Park with Frostbite

We wandered over to the neighborhood next to Golden Gate Park today for lunch, a very tasty burrito at a taqueria we had never been to, yay for our bold explorer blood, and then continued meandering into the park. I wanted to buy two posters I had seen at the bookstore in the aboretum and we love that part of the park very much. If you have any interest in gardening, or just looking at pretty flowers, it's mecca. The arboretum has the most lushly landscaped beds, filled with really interesting specimens from areas that share the mediterranean climate with San Francisco, a climate which today was gray and cold. I know it's July; I was wearing my summer coat. Certainly, having sprung from the Gulf Coast, I sympathize with those of you sweltering right now. You'll have to trust me when I say I was eyeing the lady bundled up in scarf and gloves with envy.

While in the park, we stumbled on the always charming Golden Gate Park Band. A very traditional small brass and woodwind group, they play each Sunday in beautiful Neo-classical band shell, always presenting an eclectic program of show tunes and operetta and Sousa marches. It's odd to think how often we see them without ever planning on it. I played tuba (badly) in school and have a great fondness for the cheesy, slightly out of tune shows they produce.

Here's the posters I bought. They're going in the bold pink bathroom.

The Wonderful World of Crap

I spent my lunch at a thrift store in the Mission. I wasn’t looking for anything special and even if I had stumbled on something fabulous, I don’t know how I would have dealt with it since I had to come straight back to the office. Mostly I was just went to poke around there; I find browsing in junk stores very soothing.

Plus, today was apparently High Style Toozday at Thrift Town. The store very thoughtfully provides a tester station for people to try out electrical appliances before they buy. Usually it’s being utilized to see how loud the clock radios will crank out the classic rock station, but one time I saw a young man plug in a toaster which immediately started emitting an impressive cloud of smoke. He stood there with a look of real concentration, as if trying to decide if five bucks was a good price for a fire hazard.

Today, a middle aged gent with coarse thick hair styled in something between a mullet and an homage to Farrah Fawcett’s glory days was testing a blow dryer. He was parked there with his eyes closed, his chin tilted back, rocking his head from side to side in the stream of hot air, channeling some Wella Balsam commercial from thirty years ago. I tiptoed past him.

Then on the way out, I was trapped behind a tiny elderly Lady absolutely decked out. Sure, she was wearing sweat pants, but they were some shiny, iridescent material the color of grape bubble gum. They were so sparkly I wanted to touch them, but restrained myself. And on the other end, she had on the exact same wig Eva Gabor made so memorable as both Lisa Douglas in Green Acres and as the genesis for the Eva Gabor Wig Collection, god’s gift to down-market drag queens everywhere. I especially liked the fact it was at least two sizes too big and perched on her wee little head like a hat. I take it as a matter of faith she snagged it at some previous thrifting expedition. I just hope it was on Senior Citizen’s discount day.

Inside mrpeenee's Closet

It unsettles me whenever I realize I retain some vestige of straight boy-ness. I adore decorating, have firm opinions about women's shoes and have no gag reflex whatsoever - gay, gay, gay. And yet, because I sprang from a world of heterosexuals (rather like being raised by wolves) I still have some trace of that culture. Specifically, I maintain a passionate hatred of clothes shopping that would rival that of the most committed breeder boy. The entire process irks me and is why I have a wardrobe that can only be described as skeletal; it looks like an Amish farmer imitating an IRS agent. I have one pair of black leather shoes to wear to work, a pair of Converse tennis shoes for all the rest of the time and a pair of nice leather shoes I wear to funerals, and you had better be a pretty good dead friend for me to break them out. I had one belt I wore every single day until R Man gave me a new one for my birthday and took the old one away. All my shirts and pants come from Costco, I was beyond delighted to find out I could buy khaki pants and a five pound tub of salted cashews in the same place. The fact that they do not allow you to try on the merchandise is fine with me. Dealing with dressing rooms is one of the aspects of clothes shopping I like least; that and dealing with salesmen. I never feel as frumpy as I do when confronted with some clerk who probably makes a great deal less money than me and yet looks like I should be parking his car for him. All this means I have plenty of room in my closet, which is good considering how much room my porn collection takes up.

That's why I'm fascinated with haz-mat bunny suits, those fabulous one piece costumes worn by workers scrubbing down Three Mile Island. I'd love to get away with having one as my daily ensemble. I always like footie jammies and these just take the concept to a higher plane.

Juggling with Knives

My dear friend John and I were struggling through Sur le Table, the schmancy kitchen equipment store in the Ferry Building, today after a fabulous lunch of chopped beef barbecue sandwiches. I know I said I was attempting to eat more healthfully, but I was lying. Shut up. At least I passed on the custard filled Italian doughnuts, because I am filled with virtue. And barbecue.

So anyway, we were considering knives, beautiful German knives, for John to get his boyfriend for Christmas. The choice had come down to an 8 inch chef knife and an almost identical one with a hollow blade, a Santoku. The salesgirl swore it was the best for slicing. I'm very skeptical of specialized equipment, it seems like a solid chef's knife, a serrated one, and a smaller paring blade is plenty, and falling for a knife that specializes in slicing (as opposed to focusing its talents on interpretive danse, I suppose) is just another step along a path that leads to drawers full of dubious purchases. But John was very taken with both (I think he mostly liked saying the word Santoku, with increasing gusto) so he sprang for them. I supported him despite my doubts because what else can you do when you're out shopping but spend money?

John was also interested in another Japanese knife, one with a ceramic blade. The salesgirl was willing to go along with this, not just because it's her job, but because John's charm involves everyone around him in his world, and his world right then included ceramic blades, dammit. She pulled one down and let me tell ya, it was just weird. Knives are simply not supposed to have white blades. The clerk held up a piece of paper for John to slash through, which I thought was very brave of her, but probably only showed how little she sensed John's lack of self control.

He was on his way to a cutlery threeway when the salesgirl casually mentioned that the knife breaks if you drop it. We were both taken aback by the idea of an expensive knife that could take off the tip of your finger, but couldn't stand up to the rough and tumble of kitchen work. We passed.

OLPS

When R Man and I were living la vie homosexual in New Orleans, we did so half a block from the Ursulines convent, an historic structure that included the former chapel of Our Lady of Prompt Succor. Of course, this seemed wholly appropriate to me since I too had been known by similar names. I was never able to snag a t-shirt with that title, but now, I’ve found it here . I’m getting mine in orange, cause it’s sassy.

Abercrombie & Bitch

Even though I'm very fond of partially nude men (perhaps excessively so) Abercrombie and Fitch's stores and advertising irritates me profoundly. Maybe it's because they use homoeroticsm to peddle overpriced mediocre clothes, but don't want to embrace their queerific identity or maybe I'm just projecting the snotty attitude so many really pretty gay men have onto them. Maybe it's just because they light their stupid stores as if they were nightclubs. Anyway, I was plenty amused to run across this prank by the group Improv Everywhere . According to their website, Improv Everywhere “causes scenes of chaos and joy in public places” including A&F. Go to their website and watch the video of them invading the store and the hypocritical, tight-ass over-reaction by the staff.

Supersize This, Baby

I wrote earlier in Schmancy Shopping about the joys of grocery errands in the exquisite environs of the San Francisco Ferry Building. On Saturday, R Man and I plan an expedition to the polar extreme of such refined consumption - we’re off to Costco. Part of me squirms at the very idea of crossing that threshold, feeling as if being there makes me personally and solely responsible for global warming, but I need a six-pack of dental floss, a pallet of paper towels and a gross ton of spaghetti sauce.

I’m fascinated by the giant extended families plodding through the aisles there blocking my way. How are you going to get all those frozen chicken wings and twelve kids into one minivan? Maybe they secretly plan on leaving granny in the parking lot and hoping she doesn’t find her way back this time.

Also, we always get to play a lively round of Spot the Mos. It’s terribly amusing scoping out the other queer couples engaged in such domestic bliss. Who needs to get married? We have a joint Costco membership.

Mmmm. I’m already dreaming of a five-pound tub of salted cashews.