My days have been filled with a peculiar thrill. That of interviewing others for the opportunity to toil alongside myself and my comrades in the workhouse.

I fucking love the job interview. It does wonders for my sad, sorry self-esteem. It is ego ointment, because, of course, at some weird cosmic moment, I got the job.

Today’s specific thrill involved an answer I myself would never mouth, never conceive, never been able to utter in a million years and a thousand words of utterances. We asked a question, and the answer was a simple “JOY.”

Grok it. A chick in a job interview speculates on “joy.”

Um, like, did we mention it’s a job?

Moreover, I know it’s fucking California, but cowboy up for fuck’s sake. It’s never, ever gonna be all unicorns and rainbows and bubbles. Someone has to file the paper and make the calls.

Shit, I’m all bitter, Cali style. And, for that, I feel joy.

Every now again when life immediates cheap, bad art, and an event happens that kind of radiates through the day.

In today’s episode, I remembered I had to interview some folks for an open position and through on some black, dress pants before strolling to the office. Boring, yes?

Before the candidate was due, I figured a quick pee was in order. I realized then that I was trapped in my pants with a recalcitrant zipper. With my watch cycling through the minutes, I pulled and prodded. All the while my bladder, sensing the proximity of the porcelain receptacle, englarged to gargantuan proportins in a Pavlovian flow.

Defeated, I crawled back to my desk. I sliced the zipper open a bit with scissors, grabbed some safety pins, presciently purchased earlier, and gripping cloth in my fist awkwardly waddled back to the loo to finish my business.

Held together with safety pins, I knew by then the interviewee undoubtedly showed up a bit early, eager and all that good interview mojo shit.

Sure ‘nough, I got tracked down by a wondering co-worker, who passed by the lonely camper in the lobby waiting for my arrival.

It’s a bit hard to focus on the hopes, dreams and aspirations of the young and hopeful, resume in hand, while your pants are threatening descent and safety pins are grinding your hip.

M.’s been on a roll lately ranting about the spawn of others. The capper is tomorrow. They’re having some kind of fun day at work where folks are bringing their rugrats into daddy’s or mommy’s office.

Games, fun, food and prizes, I gather, in some kind of mangling of “Bring your kid to work day.” It’s a month early to be the real official deal of the day. Still and all, it’s some form of it.

Awesomely, and in some kind of fucked up Bay Area kind of inclusion or reflection of the whole “everyone is special” ethos that seems to have infected the country, his work is acknowledging we aren’t all breeders. So there’s some kind of special bonus gathering of the abstainers, impotents, prophilaxis-loving doers and maybe some gays. The spawnless get their own shindig for “drag your kid in day.”

Loving it.

He’s actually pretty chill with kids. It’s the parents, the breeders themselves, with whom his umbrage is taken. It’s easy to hate on them in these parts. For example, ain’t nothing worse when you’re all up in the wilderness than spying the bright colors and large wheels of an all-terrain jogging stroller coming up the path.

I saw a three-body wide jogging stroller on a bike path yesterday whilst walking to work. Wouldn’t three toddlers at once be exercise enough?

Speaking of exercise, I’m diving in on the whole free pedometer, seven-week, 10,000 step a day, work challenge. I work with fucking freaks, though.

If you listen to the Surgeon General, or more importanly the interweb tubes, you get info like this right here. It says how like your office worker type gets like 1,000 to 3,000 steps a day, which might be a mile, just by strolling to the copier and chatting at the watercooler (In my head, there’s a watercooler, even though I’m not sure I ever worked near one, let alone water that provided a gathering point.)

But, the can-do, overachievers that populate my place of biz don’t do shit in small degrees. Like ever. A casual weekend outing is hiking Half Dome.

Walking to work and back home again, abut 2.7 miles each way, isn’t necessarily putting me in the top 10 for daily totals. I’m getting maybe 17,000 steps a day, and it just ain’t enough to compete.

Makes me miss the snow, wind, sleet and mud of a March in New England, where stepping outdoors is just not desirable.

All this walking gives you a chance to smell the proverbial flowers, though. Although with the seasonal allergies I don’t sniff, I click.

Clearly this is some flavor of hawk. I loves me hawks and all that wilderness shit.

But, more than that, I do not know.

I was reading some geek, tech newsletter or weblog or some other kind of new millenium news vehicle online, and I heard about this story.

It had me thinking on two different paths. One, is the whole thang I had a wee tiny bit of notoriety, namely my own weblogging alledged threat. I’m letting myself off the hook for two reasons, though. First, I didn’t direct anything threatening to anyone. And, second, my shit is clearly words for something like creativity.

I don’t think you can have a threat without actually having some kind of target, not an amorphous creative venting spree. The ‘blogging chick was threatened, and it was personal.

The more compelling thing is the parallel life I have lived to this chick, and every other woman I know, in the world of comedy. Not performing has given me a good hard look at shit I abolutely hated about the comedy scene.

The pattern is to go along with all jokes, developing an iron shell against some mighty fucked up stuff. Or, get the whiny label and the threats. That’s the deal, I think. Sophie or Hobbes or somebody with a choice or maybe a rock and a hard place.

Take this post from my friend about a night at an open mike. Some guys find angry misogyny a laugh riot. Or racist shit, anything stupid really.

Folks can tell you there’s acceptance or sexism is overblown. But, then some asshole writes about slashing your gash or whatnot, and you know it’s still a way of life.

It’s why I will likely never use my real name again on any comedy bulletin board or forum.

Lately, working has been wearing thin. Real fucking thin. So thin I have to continually eat the free food and whatnot to remind myself even in hell, I eat well.

So, I’m waddling around snacking and tensing every muscle until my brain hurts, figuratively, and my head aches, literally. Or maybe both figuratively and literally. Can you feel your brain?

The comparison that keeps bubbling to the surface like an emotional turd that circles the bowl and then pops up for more, the emotional Mr. Hanky, is with a certain movie. You order too many lunches, have to park a car, order limos and deal with anxious spouses, all whilst being a wise ass, the natural goof is “The Devil Wears Prada.”

I think it really might have been the carparking.

Anyways, the wonderful and supportive M. rented up the flick for our home viewing last night. I spent the day reliving the comparisons.

(OK, and hiking, but, you know, that lacks a certain drama. I mean, if you are in the sun and nature and all, maybe you’re not exactly wilting with the vodka and barbituates cocktail. But, you know, I could have been. Everything always hangs by a thread in this painful existence.)

I thought of something hip, clever, interesting even to write.

Then I dozed off on the couch while waching the telebision at about 8:30 p.m. I fear my decline will be constant, steady, unyielding until I nap in the daylight, drooling on myself, oblivious to adult life moving around me.

The shit lost in the naptime needs of my brain was all radical too. Starting the revolution here and now, don’t you know.

Actually, it was about the chick at work talking on the feminist empowerment of using the word “cunt.” I am one shit feminist, I tell you what, though. Really bad at it. Because at the end of any day at the moment of stridency or maybe literalism or grinding intellectualism or some kind of earnestness, I think, “Jesus fucking christ, lighten up and laugh.”

But, what the fuck do I know, I’m a sleepy cunt.

A comedy figure has left this mortal coil. RIP Larry “Bud” Melman.

Back in my college days when Letterman was not at all a household word, I watched obsessively the original Late Show on NBC. There was so much new about David Letterman and the characters and the format.

More than Saturday Night Live, which was certainly a landmark in my comedy awareness, Letterman was comedy that totally had me riveted. Larry “Bud” was one of many memorable characters.

I saw him live and in person during a tour of Larry “Bud” Melman and the Melmettes. A schlocky traveling “comedy” show that was just pointless, absurd and fun. I think i still have in the bottom of a t-shirt pile a plain white Hanes he signed with a Sharpie across my back.

It’s a reminder for me to just get on stage and be the best, sweaty, middle-aged person I can be.

I try not to watch the weather report on the local news here. It just makes me feel more contempt for my neighbors.

Tonight’s warning, lots of wind tomorrow. It’ll be in the 60s or 70s Farenheit (for you to look up Dave), but it might feel colder. They guy just suggested a little caution, because even though the sun will be shining you might need a sweatshirt.

I think they have the quakes so that folks can grow their stones back every now and again.

Got a call from the upstairs neighbor at my place in Cambridge, he’s moving out and marrying his girlfriend.

When he moved in, I was already there, we were both single and, I think, both planning to be stay a long while. Life moves on.

I left shit in the basement, which he has been kind enough to store. The question for today was do I do anything about it? Happily, he’s cool with dumping it on the curb for me.

Kind of liberating to just say “fuck it” and not worry about whatever books or papers or tools or craft supplies that I once stored for the ages. I kept thinking about a bit from a comedian lady I know and her mom’s collection of coffee cans for crafts. I may very well have had a can saved for a future project down there.

Cambridge used to be my home. I knew my neighbors. I was comfortable with the literal man upstairs. My favorite comedy show was down the street. Restaurants, bars, clubs and the convenience store where I was a regular.

Now, I’m gone. The man upstairs is going. And, my favorite comedy show, the boys who run it and their best friend have all left.