In Which We Return

 

The mission statement of mrpeenee, Inc. LLC

Well that was fun.  I left Venice early Tuesday morning and got home something like 16 hours later, 16 very tiring hours.  Turns out even having a chair that makes into a bed, while making the whole ordeal easier, does not totally do away with the hassles of flying.  I've been home two days and I'm still trying to get my frail carcass back to normal.  Or as normal as it ever gets.  I'm just glad to be back to my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet and I understand that is the definitive old man statement.  Don't care, won't care.

Let me once again emphasize how much I appreciate what a good sport Diane was about traveling with me.  There we were, in two of the great cultural centers and my plan was to take naps and have coffee and pastries, which is exactly what I do here. The St. Regis cafe, a block from our hotel in Paris, gets 5 enthusiastic stars, would go again, in a heartbeat.  Also the place in Venice that sells pistachio cream filled croissants was really good.

Here's my review of Delta airlines, with which I flew home: the planes suck (The seat to bed thingy worked okay, but was so narrow I couldn't fit my elbows down by my side when lying down, and I am not a particularly wide individual.) but the personnel were great.  I originally had a 6-hour layover in Atlanta and needed to get a boarding pass for my leg back to San Francisco.  The desk I had to deal with had three ladies filing their nails and refusing to make eye contact and one large homo.  Naturally, we bonded, girlfriend got me a first class seat on a flight that was boarding pretty much right then.  I was home, and glad of it, before my original flight even took off.  

In short I'm delighted I went, I had a wonderful time, and I am never leaving San Francisco again. 

Fellow travelers: 

Well, someone knows how to have a good time.

I've decided to start a new religion

Extra beefy is always welcome around here

Everything counts in large amounts.

Extra tasty, just for you.

Buttchops

In Which We Flee to Italy

That's mrpeenee, there on the left.

Eighteenth century rich Englishmen who had too much money and not enough culture would embark on what was called a Grand Tour in order to get rid of some of the first and maybe pick up some of the latter.  Diane and I have taken on a sort of abbreviated version of one and have left Paris for the damp embrace of Venice. 

You have to take a boat from the airport into town, because, duh, Venice. As soon as I stepped out of the airport doors and was met with the briney, fishy smell of the lagoon, I was transported back to my childhood in the swamps of the Texas Gulf Coast.  Muck, it has a Proustian effect on me.

I naively hoped the gangs of tourists would not be as dreadful as everyone said.  And they aren't.  They are, in fact, much worse.  Diane and I got lost trying to get to the Piazza San Marco, which is actually not far from our hotel, but the mobs of tourists, combined with Venice's incomprehensible layout was just more than we could master.  Plus my refusal to ask for directions didn't help.

God love her, Diane was such a trouper.  She never complained, even as we wandered, battered by the crowds, for 3 HOURS.  We finally just gave up and were headed back to the hotel when we accidentally stumbled on, drum roll, the Piazza.  We had a very nice tea there and then came back to collapse in the hotel. 

A dazed mrpeenee in the very charming Cafe Florian tea room on the Piazza San Marco

Here is a partial list of things that piss me off about the tourist rabble here.

• Bitches
• Bitches who smoke in my vicinity
• Bitches who are in my vicinity 
• Bitches posing for their influencer TikTok
• Bitches who stop in front of me, oblivious to all the people crammed in behind them 
• Bitches who crowd up right on my heels when some other bitch has stopped in front of me and I can't go anywhere.  Bitch.
• Teutonic lesbians

We have a perfectly lovely hotel:

I am up in the attics, in a large, but odd room, with ceilings that are occasionally higher than I am tall.  Occasionally.

I have to go into the bathroom to put on or take off a t-shirt because I can't raise my arms above my head anyplace else.  I really am charmed by the room, although that's possibly a result of a concussion from blamming into the beams.

R Man and I came to Venice more than 30 years ago and loved it.  And I still love it.  Even as my last good nerve is being frayed by the busloads of vaping, vapid teenagers shipped off here on their own Grand Tours, I keep bumping into some quiet corner that reminds me how enchanting this place is.

Italianos I wish were crowding up on me:

Gianluigi Volti with all of his big meaty bigness, smooth. . . 

. . . and hairy. You decide.

Paride Spaziano and his big lemons. 

Mateo Lanzi with considerably more overhead clearance than my current room has. 

 I'm not wild about bad ink, but I will make an exception just this once for Italian soccer bitch Giorgio Torelli

Alessandro Cavagnola, who refuses to show his bits even though that is clearly what the universe demands.

A pair of Marin Barba Rosie's buttchops.

Giorgio Ramondetta, with what has to be the world's most discreet tattoo.

Alex Palmieri, big,beefy, and beautiful and who also, as Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter so charmingly phrases it, "takes it fudgeways."

In Which We Continue to Holiday

 

So how has Paris been, mrpeenee?  Tres bien, merci.  And what have you done while in the city of light, mrpeenee? Pretty much not a damn thing, which is my idea of a perfect vacation.  I mean if I wanted to accomplish something, I could just get a job.  

Diane and I went to see the Mark Rothko exhibit which I think was the best art exhibit I've ever seen.  There were several large galleries that were dimly lit so that lighting on the paintings just made them glow.  Gorgeous.  The crowds were large-ish, but not problematic, especially once I got pissed off at these pushy ladies shoving in front of me and I started just shoving back in front of them.  Outta my way bitches, I have ethereal abstract beauty to absorb. 

The show was structured so that you went from room to room in a fairly organized fashion and it ended up letting out into big hallway that had a long line filling it.  There was no indication of what the line was for, it was just everyone who had been in the room before it queuing up.  There was a rope dividing it lengthwise so I wandered up the empty side to see what the story was.  I saw a sign in French something about Max Richter, a composer I actually like but whom I did not want to stand in line to listen to.

Diane, god love her, agreed with me and so we just walked on past the line up to where it ended in a large open space.  There was another room opening off of it which was identified as the Mark Rothko Room from the Phillips Collection in Washington DC.  I had earlier mentioned to Diane that that particular collection is one of my favorites so I was delighted to run into it again.  I breezed into the room and felt like I had bumped into some old friends.  It was only as we were leaving that I realized the line was, in fact, not for some concert, but for that room and I had just busted past not only everyone waiting patiently in line, but two attendants who were carefully maintaining how many people were in the room at one time.  Oops.  Again, outta my way, bitches.

Then we had a little tea in the cafe there where they were featuring a delicious little sponge cake that was a salute to Rothko's genius.

Heeheehee.

Aside from that, all I've done is eat and indulge myself.  The evening we got here, I had a massage.  It was just okay, but it did include the lady massaging me (and I do not like to be massaged by ladies, but that's what they had available) who had me put on the world's most ludicrous garment. 

A piece of black sheer material, ridiculously too small and not at all flattering to an elderly, respectable widow such as myself.  I absolutely did not want to wear it, but I did.  And now it is my souvenir de Paris.

The next afternoon I got a nice manicure and pedicure and then just now I had a lovely shave at the barber.  The lather was delightfully scented and the barber shaved my face with meticulous tiny strokes, and then wrapped my face in nice hot towels.  I hate shaving, but if I have to I'm perfectly happy to contract it out.  It made me realize that getting shaved is probably the most intimate thing you can do that doesn't involve anybody's dick.

So it's been a lovely visit.  We leave tomorrow for Venice and more idle indulgence.  Ooh lala.

Beau mecs

I thought it would be funny to have all the naked guys this week be French, but when I googled "naked French guys" the pickings were pretty scarce aside from this Dieux du Stade which is very nice, but has no dicks and besides everybody's already seen it.

And so instead, let us turn to our old friend, anonymous buttchops from Tumblr.

Alejandro Belmont and his alarming cum gun.

I don't know if this guy is French, but his foreskin certainly could be. 

Vacation nude.

Artsy because I'm in Paris and all that.

Isn't he pretty?

More French-appearing dick skin.

Also I'm sorry I haven't replied to everybody's very charming comments last week, but I've been terribly busy doing nothing.

In Which mrpeenee Goes to Paris

My friend hot foot gave me a beret as a combo birthday/bon voyage present

Allons, bitches.  Lafayette, we are here, and all that.  Paris is forcing all of its charms on me.  I'm sure I will be able to revel in them soon, but right now I feel like I have spent all night on a plane.  Mostly because I did.

Let me hasten to assure you, it was a great flight.  We were in first class with seats that turned into flat beds and I took full advantage of mine.  Plus pretty much when I wasn't sacked out snoozing, I was eating.  An appetizer course, a lunch course, a cheese course, snacks, followed by nappy time, and then breakfast.  Amazingly, it was all delicious.  I had heard before that Air France delivers the goods when it comes to eating, and they really did.  The flight attendant offered me orange juice with breakfast and and when I refused it, he let me know, in a very frenchy way, that that was the wrong answer.  But then he gave me extra croissants, so no hard feelings I guess.

The bed was easy to adjust, but I think you would need to be both whimsical and overly optimistic to describe it as comfortable.  But then again the big problem was that, much like the rest of the world, It was not designed for a tall man.  I persevered though and managed to serve wedge myself in and slept from somewhere over Colorado to somewhere over Normandy.  Ooh la la.

Now Diane and I are settled into a charming small hotel on the Ile de la Cite.  

And I have a massage scheduled in a couple of hours.  Again I say woohoo, bitches.  April in Paris.  

Nude dudes:

Long time commenter Jeff has tipped us off that comments in the last post were not showing up.  I don't know what's up with that, I'm hoping it's a one-time problem and not something I need to investigate, cuz I'm in Paris, bitches.

This hotel is in an 18th century building, which is very charming, but I think their Wi-Fi is from the same period because my internet connection is pretty shaky.  Will this post see the light of day?  It's an adventure.

I will cut this short because, all this internet access woes are getting on my nerves.  Adieu mon amis.

In Which We Voyage

 

Sunday afternoon, Diane von Austinburg and I will hurl ourselves into the sky and hopefully land in Paris the next morning.  Woohoo.  I'm looking forward to our trip very much, we'll also be dropping in on Venice for a few days.  I haven't been to Europe in more than 30 years, but my previous trips to Paris were very successful and got all the obligatory destinations out of the way so now I can concentrate on my favorite Parisian activity which is simply wandering around aimlessly.

Or possibly just holing up in my hotel room since the weather forecast calls for Gallic gray skies and chilly rain.  As sort of a bon voyage from San Francisco, the weather here has flipped from gorgeous sunny spring back to drizzly winter; I feel like I'm rehearsing for my vacation.

We do have a couple of plans, the one I'm looking forward to the most is an exhibit of work by my favorite artist in the world, Mark Rothko.  It's the largest show of his stuff ever mounted and I only found out about it after I had already arranged the trip.  We get there the day before the show closes, it was meant to be.

Rothko

I also arranged for massages in both Paris and Venice.  Experience has taught me that being trapped in an airplane results in my creaky old carcass needing some assistance straightening up.  The website for the spa in Venice was very straightforward and I got the reservation with no problem.  The Parisian one, naturalment, was considerably more difficult; I'm still not 100% sure I have a reservation.  I'm sure it'll be fine.

"I'm sure it will be fine" pretty much sums up my attitude for this whole trip; I've done fuck all research for where to go and what to do.  We'll be in Paris and Venice.  It's going to be wonderful.  So adieu bitches, the boulevards and the canals are calling me.

Fellow travelers:

Pretty much the only things I've even sort of arranged are dinners.  Because, Paris and Venice.  Duh.

Bryce Evans, a prime example of English beef.

Daniele Montana, Italian humpiness.

I couldn't find any French pussy, so let's just pretend this anonymous beauty is one.

Ooh la la la lah.

OK, that exhausts all of my European smut awareness.

I take it back, here we have Liam Jolley, who I believe is British.

In Which We Go to Church

First let me emphasize, I WAS NOT EAVESDROPPING.  I was at Peet's, the best cafe in the world, and a couple of elderly queers sitting behind me were discussing how to get more kids to come to church in very clarion tones. What was I supposed to do, stick my fingres in my ears?  I was immediately not on their side.  If the youth of today are not interested in what you're selling, maybe, I don't know, stop harassing them?

They had a number of plans, or maybe just concepts, the most effective sounding of which was to utilize peer pressure.  I'm not editorializing, they used that specific phrase.  Did they think these kids are unaware of religion?  That they could explain "Jesus died for your sins blah blah blah" and the kids would fall in line?  "Sure count me in.  And tell Father Rafferty the next time he puts his hand down my pants I'm going to charge him 20 bucks."

There were numerous details hashed out so they were still sitting there when I got up and left and I got a good look at them.  For one thing, one of the elderly queers was an old lady with a deep voice, so oops.  Her fellow conspirator was a plump elf with one of those beards that doesn't go down far enough past his jawbone to be convincing.  He was the one who pronounced the word "teenager" a little too enthusiastically.

My relation with church going is not nearly as traumatic as that of some gay men (or what these kids they were plotting against are probably in for.) My family was vaguely southern Baptists; one of my aunts told me when my father's mother decided the family needed to have a religion, she just looked around to see what flavor to pick and landed on the Baptists.

Southern Baptist is one of the most conservative of American Protestant sects.  They take the prohibition against false idols very seriously to the point where they have no stained glass, no statues, no icons, nothing to look at when you're a board little kid and the guy at the front is droning on and on.  I had no idea what was going on, my entire religious education consisted of "Shut up and sit down." Unlike other religions, Baptist do not have communion every week, but occasionally, for no reason I understood, the church would break out stale crackers and grape juice, because Baptist forbid drinking alcohol. I thought we were just having snacks.

Eventually, when I was about 11, I got baptized.  Everybody else my age was doing it, even Blake Lively, so I figured whathehell and signed up for it. Baptists do not baptize babies, you have to go through some indoctrination before they let you into their pyramid scheme.  There was a big tub behind the altar, big enough for the preacher and me both to stand in.  He asked if I took the lord for my savior and I answered somewhere between "yeah sure" and "I guess so" which seemed good enough for him so he grabbed me and shoved me under the water.

Growing up on the Gulf Coast I had spent plenty of time in swimming pools with hooligans who dunked me and this was just as pleasant.  My mother said I came up spluttering with my eyes huge.  Well duh.  Didn't you see that guy try to drown me?  That preacher went on to become the mayor of the nasty little town I grew up in and I vaguely remember later some scandal involving him like all good Southern Baptists eventually indulge in.

The only other thing I really remember from my churchly days was my grandmother taking me to a revival.  Revivals are when some traveling preacher would set up a big tent and preach and carry on.  The church I was familiar with was blandly suburban, pretty much no different from all the other Protestants in town, but these guys were the real deal.  They were one small step away from snake handlers and speaking in tongues.  I was astonished by it all.  It was at night and there were bright bare bulbs strung overhead and seating was just boards on top of milk crates.  I have never been to a carny side show, but whenever I read about them the image of that evening comes vividly to mind.

Anyway, my little brother died and my grandmother attempted to console my mother by telling her Jesus loved him so much, he took him "home" which sounds like pedophilia to me, but whatever.  The whole thing went over with my mother about as well as you would expect and that was pretty much the end of mrpeenee and the Baptists.  It was okay with me, they didn't have those snacks nearly often enough and they weren't really that good anyway.

Guys worth worshiping:

Hallelujah.

The blonde hotness of David Cihacek.

Jesus wannabe.

Kurt Beckman, and proud of it.

Liam Jolley, for whom I would get on my knees to worship in a heartbeat.

I like your hat, but those socks and sandals have got to go.

I have decided to start my own church, Our Lady of Perpetual Big Wieners.