In Which We Run

Go to it, Nancy

I believe I have mentioned in the past my chronic runny nose, and by "mentioned" I mean "whined at length about."  The dripping from my nose never really stops, it just fluctuates between a light dribble and a full-on flood.  It runs in my family (did you see what I did there? Runs? Oh never mind.) My father, my brother, at least one of my nieces, we all got drippy noses.  

The medical industry was not able to give me any insights into this constant flow and so I turned to the internet, because isn't shopping for a diagnosis you like what it's there for?  Dr Google came through once again and explained that my condition is Non-Allergic Rhinitis, a runny nose that is not caused by any allergy.  That actually seems less like a diagnosis and more like a simple statement of fact, but it's more than any of the physical doctors with expensive degrees had come up with.  

Since that discovery, I've found out there's a similar condition called Geriatric Rhinitis, old people runny nose.  I'm not sure when, or if, I segued from one into the other, but since it doesn't seem to matter, I'm not really concerned. Again, no real cause or treatment, the medical community just shrugs and says get used to it.  Anyway, what brings up this whole fascinating insight into mrpeenee and his snot is that this afternoon I blew my nose, as I so very often do, and a gout of blood shot out of my nose and filled up the handkerchief.  What the fuck, Geriatric Rhinitis?

Staring at what looked like evidence from a crime scene, I should have been panicked or at least concerned, instead all I felt was mild annoyance.  I think when you reach my age, being faced with yet more evidence that you're falling apart isn't really shocking, you just file it along with all the other symptoms you've been collecting since the first Bush administration.  I am just glad it happened in the privacy of my bathroom.

Naked guys:

What else is the internet good for?  The wide world of smutty entertainment.  My Tumblr feed coughed up an image from something called "Cowboy Burlesque" which sounded like a very amusing idea and then, the very next day, my niece Amber was in a bad car wreck.  She escaped largely unscathed because she is such a good person and also because being a tough old lady runs in my family.  Anyway, Amber is very fond of cowboys and so I thought to include a Burlesque one here for her.  Imagine my disappointment when I went looking and it turns out they just take their shirts off, which is tame to the point of being insipid.  You call that burlesque?  I can only suppose straight ladies are more forgiving than The Gays, because if they tried to pull that in a queer stripper bar, there would be a riot.

If you're going to be throwing around the term "Cowboy Burlesque," you better come up with something like this.

The always alluring Zack Johnathan, co-starring the fatness of his wiener

Glossy

A late xmas present for everyone who thinks I include too few daddies here.

And a gift for all the buttchop lovers out there.

I know there are some who dislike gingers, but that is just the sexual equivalent of an eating disorder.

Boxing Day beef

You want a nice guy?  I'll give you a nice guy.

More muscle pussy, for all those who celebrate.

In Which We are Victimized Before We Indulge Musically

 

Oh goddamit.  Once again, some fucking THIEF has swiped my credit card number.  This happens on the regular so often that I am no longer irate about it, but rather, simply sort of glum.  I know this dance all too well; my credit card company (much more vigilant than I am about these things) contacts me to ask about some purchase they deem sketchy.  Spoiler alert: it is sketchy.  Once I acknowledge that I have never heard of the vendor or purchase, they cancel my card and I get to brace myself for several weeks of trying to remember which automatic payments and subscriptions I need to update.  Is this a way to celebrate Christmas?  Apparently it is.

In other xmas news, I have decided this year to not indulge in my annual rant against Christmas music.  I have clearly established how I despise the mewling tones of the tunes for, as Jon over at Razzle Dazzle puts it, the Festering Season. 

Instead I will give it up for the one exception I am willing to make every year and that is for Darlene Love and her bombshell, Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).  I am not the only one so very taken by this song, her appearance on the David Letterman show was an annual event from 1994 to 2014.  After the end of the Letterman show, she moved her act to The View from 2015 until 2023.  That is quite a run, and a well-deserved one. 

Ms Love has one of the great, powerful voices in rhythm and blues.  There are very few singers who can match her when she digs in and really starts belting out.  Her collaboration with Phil Spector in the '60s was a work of genius, and Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) is a prime example of that. The song is buoyant with his trademark massive Wall-o-Sound, but Darlene Love's powerhouse singing actually manages to match it.

Without further ado, take it away Darlene.

Baby, please come home:

I find the word "panties" to be so luridly thrilling.

I think this portion of my blog, and its fascination with dicks and butts, does not give enough attention to tiddies.

Also, nut sacs.

Still, it's hard to argue with buttchops like this.

Diego Sans remains studly.

Xtra beefy

I had a good time last week in Texas, but the enchiladas were shockingly disappointing.  Shocking.

My hotel's shower was very nice, but could have been improved by a muscly companion therein.

In Which We Return to the Old Country

 

It has been 45 years since I lived in Texas, more than half my life, but my family insists on referring to my occasional returns there as "coming home".  In fact, coming home is what happens when I get off the plane in San Francisco.

I will be spending the weekend in Houston visiting my family and stuffing myself with the excellent Mexican food and barbecue that is so available there.  

There are plenty of people who are rather sniffy about Tex-Mex food, but I am not responsible for their eating disorders.  Tex-Mex is simply the finest evolution of Mexican food.  Many of those same people will go on that tiresome length about the different regional cuisines of Mexico; my claim is that Texas is simply one of those regions.  Change my mind, as the kids say these days.

Of course there's more to jetting off to Texas than enchiladas and ribs, my only remaining brother has Parkinson's and is apparently not doing well so I'm going to be checking in on him and seeing if I can harass him into feeling better.  I am 70 years old and he still regards me as his "little brother".  I think that's adorable. 

Also our dear, dear niece Amber will be making an appearance with her very amusing husband Spanky.  The fact she was thoughtful enough to provide me with a nephew named Spanky is enough to earn my eternal gratitude.  Our first naked guy of the week is in her honor:

In Which We Snuggle

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In Which We Live the Cafe Life

 

When I was young and wild, I had a favorite bar, but now I have calmed down considerably and have a favorite cafe instead.  I'm sure soon I will be reduced to having a favorite doctor's waiting room.  So all that means I frequently mention my adventures in Peet's, the world's finest cafe.  When I was looking for an apartment, my primary requirement was being near Peet's, since real estate is all about location, location, location. The sweet place where I now hang my head popped up a block from Peet's and I was immediately sold.  I would have put up with rats and asbestos if I needed to, fortunately it turned out to be a lovely apartment. 

Being so close to the mecca of lattes and pastries means I can go there every single day.  And I'm glad I do, if it wasn't for Peet's, I would have long since turned into a shut-in talking to my cat even more than I already do.  Not that I actually speak to anyone at the cafe, god forbid, but all the baristas know me so always have a little chit chat with them and then I ignore everyone else, but I still have to deal with overhearing my fellow customers, so very many of whom are idiots.  I recently heard some guy patiently explain to his middle-aged female companion that tuna came in cans.  Bitch, what? How could you you live in this world as long as you apparently have without knowing how to get tuna? 

More to today's point is that I realize I have never shared what my beloved Pete's looks like.  So here's a quick little tour to let everyone know when I mention the old place what I am talking about.

Isn't this the coziest place you've ever laid eyes on?

This counter marooned in the middle of the room is what I have privately dubbed No Man's Land.  Its awkward height and exposed situation means nobody wants to sit there.  If I walk in and someone is parked at it, I know all the seats in the joint are already taken and I will have to fight for a perch.

Speaking of seats, this is my favorite.  I can sit here and watch all the action out on the sidewalk and at the same time turn my back on the madness going on inside.

Eye candy is a frequent bonus.

I usually avoid the table seating mostly because that just encourages my eavesdropping tendency.

Command central.

Surprise.  I jusr wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

Guys with whom I'd like to have a cup o' joe:

Jeebus on the cross and meat in the seat.

I love when a boy's butt chops overwhelm his panties.

Speaking of things which overwhelm me.

I've been bingeing a British police procedural series called Line of Duty and I am digging it.  Tragically, none of the actors look anywhere near like this.

Isn't that inviting?

I don't know why the show is so po-faced about cute guys, apparently there is plenty of fine British beef.

In Which Toby Frolics

My substantial collection of fancy Chinese Art Deco rugs is one of my favorite things I own.  It also suffered from Unfortunate Liquids when my late cat Octavia was so sick these last few week.  And so I shipped all the rugs off to be washed and I'm looking forward to a stinky-free future soon.  

The floor here is that fake wood flooring in a gray taupe non-color that is so popular with all the hip kids who have had their taste eliminated by the internet.  The rugs add a welcome amount of color and texture and keep my little tootsies warm, but I hadn't realized they also have been suppressing my cat Toby's entertainment. 

Since the fake wood floors hard slick surface has been revealed, Toby has been gleefully chasing and pouncing on toys he previously ignored.  The toys skitter in a way that makes him crazy.  I had thought Toby didn't really like toys, but it was just that he didn't have the right arena for his skills. 

Usually whenever I try to interest Toby in some toy time, he looks at me like he's concerned for my mental well-being.  He seems slightly insulted when I throw a ball towards him or try to get him to chase some stuffed little mouse.  And yet, when I later walk back in the room there will be toys scattered everywhere indicating some bacchanal has occurred without me.  It hurts my feelings a little bit.  

But for the next week or so, Toby will have all the hunt and kill enrichment a little kitty could ask for.  That catnip filled iguana had just better watch out. 

Men I'd like to play with:

The admirably meaty Brock Magnus.

There is nothing sexier than a man with pretty hair and a hot pussy who reads.

Humpiness is next to godliness.

Ready to rock.

Proof that I can appreciate aged beef.

Open for business.

Tasty