In a post of it’s own —

Hey M., congrats on that thing about the thing and all that. I’d say more, but, you know, like privacy and all that. I’m proud of you for going after the next thing for yourself.

I cannot get myself motivated to do much of anything. Maybe it’s the sunshine that’s finally hitting this gray town. Maybe it’s the weird energy around the Boston Comedy Fest. In past years, it’s been fun, lively with a lot of camraderie and drinking and folks being pretty happy to be part of a larger group of people also interested in comedy and shit like that. This year, the buzz is pretty damned low and nearly drowned by the negative sub-plots of back-stabbing and all that are always part of the scene. You know, it’s show folk and performers, so everyone’s a bit of a diva or ready to be wounded at the wrong look, and there is always, always, always stories of who hates who, who’s fucking who, who used to fuck but now hates, who hates but now fucks, and all of the kiss-kiss, hug-hug shallow glad handing you could hope for in a lifetime. But all of that is generally surface emotion shadowed and mitigated by talented people having fun doing what they do and remembering it’s supposed to be funny.

This year there just ain’t the fun, somehow. Of course, it doesn’t help that even though it’s called “Boston” Comedy Fest, a lot of the people who live here aren’t part of it. On top of that, it magnifies the great Boston-Cambridge divide, which is just so fucking ludicrous the less said about it the better.

Or maybe my lack of motivation is because of the sinkhole in the middle of my day of a goodbye party for someone who’s been laid off. But, it’s not like a real, straightforward layoff, it’s a slimy restructuring is just as good a time as any to throw some stuff overboard that you no longer loved. Cynical and cold with a shiny, warm party exterior. I like my hate, anger and disappointment right out there swinging in the wind, where everyone can see it. A piece of shit situation with a fucking awesomely gorgeous bow on top and a red cherry is still a fucking piece of shit.

The chick being feted stayed through the whole maximum time required to collect every dime of her severance pay, painful months of not copping to anyone that this summer of time off wasn’t her idea. Not me, baby. You mention where the coats are kept, and moments later I have left the party. Unless my only possible option left is toothless crack whore, I ain’t hanging out, making nicey nice to help you and your guilt get ready for work life without me. Nosiree Bob. Maybe that’s because I like my teeth (especially since my sister gave me the sweet Oral-B electric brushing thing that keeps my pearly whites pearly). Or maybe it’s because I carry an excess or just enough of a thing called pride.

I won’t even go on about the whole choking up thing. But, you lay me off, I am not giving you a tearful I will miss you goodbye you’ve been great goodbye. Fuck no, my crying will be done in repressed silence alone, like it’s meant to be.

SOOOO, awkward work goodbye party made even more awkward by stupid chitchat moment — Someone mentions the “Future Mrs.” and I have done or still do stand-up comedy around Cambridge. New, temp girl, who is freakishly awkward and know-it-all-y attempts conversation by telling me about a comedy club. She describes by location and scarce details on when and why and remembers it’s a Chinese restaurant and maybe I should look into it. The place she describes is the Comedy Studio at the Hong Kong Restaurant in Harvard Square. A weird moment of silence is then led by me as I grapple in my brain for a polite way to say no fucking shit, Einstein, you’ve basically just pinpointed the home club of both “Future Mrs.” and me.

(I’ll say nothing on Julie trying to get me to tell a joke. The dicey part being that both “Future Mrs.” and I say shit on stage that we wouldn’t be able to get away with at work. “Future Mrs.,” if you see this, next time that comes up, you better be prepared for me to at the very least bring up anal as a fun joke topic in the office.)

Next time someone tells me they’re in a band in Cambridge, I’m going to ask them if they ever heard of a place called the Middle West or maybe the Middle East.

My only hope is someday soon the same chick advises one of the researchers on what journals they should reading or other cool places to get scientific ideas percolating.

Yeah, the naked truth alluded to below:

If you mention frontal nudity and the possibility of your altogether being somewheres out there in cyberspace, it turns out your hit rate goes up.

For those looking for various naked celebs (how in hell would a search for naked Olsens or Hillary Duff end up here), sorry you fucking sick fucks with your worship of media created imagery, too cool to jerk off to mere mortal women, there’s nothing for you here.

And, for actual Dee-Rob fans, who wanted some Dee-Rob skin, ain’t nothing to see. Besides the fact, I won’t be linking any such pics here (and I can hear some loved ones sighing an enormous breath of relief on that one). Depending on your point of view this could be fortunate, the taste police over at Textamerica yanked the plug on Rev. Tim’scamera-phone site. Not only did Textamerica pull the pics (which were actually more funny than anything), they cancelled the account. Adding insult to injury, they also deleted from their forum the few inquiries trying to find out what happened. That fucking blows.

So, taking a tip from Tim, here’s some fodder for Google: Textamerica sucks, Textamerica censors, censorship at Textamerica, hypocritical bastards at Textamerica.. Textamerica sucks, Textamerica censors, censorship at Textamerica, hypocritical bastards at Textamerica.. Textamerica sucks, Textamerica censors, censorship at Textamerica, hypocritical bastards at Textamerica..

Last night I did Andy’s Naked Comedy Show in a Newton basement full of nouveau bohemians and hippies in a private show/hot tub party, and tonight I will be here, the Walk For Hunger Benefit Show. Both benefits, but other than that miles apart.

I guess comedy has added a little adventure to my otherwise humble, yet tawdry, existence. Whether there is value in such things, I guess I’ll have to wait and see, proofed in the forge of time and all that.

Apropos nothing, although tangential to the fact I was in a hot tub last night, every morning I get up and take a hot shower with soap given to me by the ‘blog character known as M. It’s a bittersweet indulgence with the richness of expensive French milling and heady aroma conflicting with my missing M. Yin and yang, I guess, and missing him is sweeter than not knowing him to miss.

The thing about hot tubs, though, is the veritable soup pot atmosphere (round, bubbling and steamy) kicks my germphopic leanings entirely upright and to the fore. Apart from Freudian ickiness (and I believe icky is the clinical term), it’s a major reason I’m not dying to get into my sister-in-law/brother’s hot tub. I haven’t decided which is worse for that feeling, actually, naked hot tubbing, as favored by the Newton hippies, or bathing suited hot tubbing, not just favored but mandated by family gatherings. I think a case could be made for the filthiness of each. So, it’s very relaxing and fun and interesting and communal and all sorts of other positive up-beat adjectives, but I cannot fucking wait to be alone in a hot shower afterward. (Ideally, with bittersweet gift soap from my sweetie.)

I also thought about titling this post “Something about the first time” or maybe “What would Janis do?”

If there are lingering Catholics up all in the virtual house of this ‘blog, as the kids might say if they were sadly as deludedly hip as me, y’all better pluck out your own eyeballs to stop reading and not throw yourself into a vatful of occasion of sin. Actually, what I’m really hoping is that you keep reading, and in this week’s Boston Herald the headline will read something like “Science Proves Self-Righteousness Causes Addlepated Melonheads to Explode,” only briefer and in giant letters.

Pretty much this little experiment in writing here started out with me throwing sumpin’ up on the web after the first time I performed naked. (If you go to that link, ignore the bottom bits. They are incoherent rants of an imbecilic woman who has since been subdued by force.)

The first show was maybe the first, true, soulful, sensual, sexual kiss. The one with someone you really liked that literally took your breath away and for days after all you could think was “Wow! That’s what it’s all about.” Something primal that felt like nothing that had come before it.

This one was different. Maybe it’s the long-term committed friendship, lover, flame relationship, but well into the game. It is wonderful, because this is the person who understands you and with whom intimacy is remarkable every damn fucking day. And, sex is what it is. It can be rocking or happy and sweet or rushed or maybe even a bit angry or tired or blue, but definitely less miraculous than the first touch, the first time when it truly mattered.

This show was like that. I was comfortable, I was happy, I think I performed OK, and I am very happy to have done a return engagement. But, it was what it was. Not so much bottle rockets and sparklers, it was a foot rub or a cup of coffee brought to you in bed.

Note to self: If you sign on to do a show that ratchets up the nervous energy, drive alone. I revel in chilling out in my car with the stereo at maximum volume, but tonight it was not meant to be.

I want to congratulate by name those involved, but I hate to randomly out people who might want to keep their identities undercover (ha ha get it nudity-undercover). Everyone did a great job (no surprise) and the show was fun. Feel free to write your identity in the comment space and out yourself.

As for what would Janis do? She’d be down with letting a friend and fellow performer use his camera phone to catch a glimpse of her goods. So, somewhere on the WWW, I might be channeling a little Janis.

Somewhere near Salinas, Lord, M. is slipping away… Not really, but it is like the song “Me and Bobby McGee” that he’s calling me and telling me he’s outside Salinas.

The cool part is, if he makes a couple of changes, I might be able to see him sooner rather than later, if he’s able to come back for a visit.

Then, I won’t be singing the virtual blues.