In Which We Say Goodbye to an Old Friend

 

Goddamit

Yes it's true, my beloved Peet's, the world's finest cafe, is closing the location I go to every day.  So, once again, fuck 2025.  And before any of you get alarmed about mrpeenee's chronology problems, let me assure you I know it's technically now 2026, BUT 2025 is when the corporate buyout that led to this occurred.  First Trump gets reelected and then that. Goddamit. 

Peet's announced that its corporation had been consumed by a larger conglomerate headed up by Dr Pepper/ Keurig, which sounds like an evil business name from Saturday Night Live, but it's really real.  Keurig I can sort of understand since it's simply a coffee company buying out a competitor.  I suppose they don't need any cafes in their drive to choke the environment one tiny plastic container at a time. But Dr Pepper? What did I ever do to them?  Whenever I bump into DP in the wild I'm always vaguely surprised they're still around.  They seem like a remnant of my Southern childhood, an also ran in the the cola wars. Now I simply have a concrete grudge against them.

Since there are many, many days when stumbling down to get my daily cup o' Joe is the only reason I have to leave the house, I now need to find a replacement for Peet's. I'm researching possibilities, but all the candidates have some fatal flaw; they are too far away, or too fussy, or not fussy enough, or I have sworn eternal enmity against them and their bloodlines for some wrong they committed against me that no one but I remember.  Mostly, of course, the truth is simply that I am a cranky old man and I am opposed to change on principle.  I have outlived R Man, family, friends, people I love, cats, and now my cafe.  Give me a break, entropy. 

At least I still have naked guys:

Plein air pussy.

I refuse to worry about PhotoShop or AI encroaching on the world of smut.  I surrender.

Also, I sympathize with my readers trapped in the frozen waste of everywhere that isn't California.  Sorry guys.

I send Gianluigi Volti to help you through these frigid times.

Don't despair, spring is on the way.

When he hauls that hog out, I'm sure you can hear an audible "plop".

Ready for action.

In Which We Have Excitement

 

Oh, my little grease spots, such thrilling times here at the old Chez peenee.  Early one morning last week I was blasted out of bed by the fire alarm in my building.  The alarm is deliberately so painfully shrill and loud that there is no ignoring it. I know because I have tried to do just that.  It turns out an apartment at the other end of the hall on the floor above me had indulged in a small kitchen fire which, fortunately, was put out with no real damage from the fire.  Unfortunately, the sprinklers went off and flooded most of the building.  My unit was one of the very few that were not damaged; out of 75 apartments, only 12 wound up unscathed. 

No place like home

It's really been very impressive how fast the emergency remediation of all the water damage has been.  They have ripped out all the sheetrock walls and ceilings in the hallway and most of the fucked up apartments and they've had dehumidifiers and heaters blasting for almost a week now.  My end of the hall is unaffected except for the noise and the heat.  In case you were wondering what it's like living in a sauna, I am here to tell you it is not all it's cracked up to be. Although Toby thinks it's absolutely great. 

They've finished the demolition and will be moving on to construction next week.  Having lived through a couple of renovations when I owned a house, I know that these things will take longer than I might hope for.  Worse still is that none of the construction guys are in the least bit attractive.  Dammit.

Guys who would make for excellent tradies:

I don't know who Harvey is, but I am all for him.

Even the most hard-working deserves a siesta

Many of my neighbors have moved out for the duration.

Meaty

First place in this season's Twirk Fest.

Whee.

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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