And counting. The M. Clock now reads 2:0:0:30, although I can’t remember if I set it at the flight time or what. His flight leaves at about 9:30 a.m. on this December 17, 2003. It looks like for this year at least I’ve had my last back rub and my last cup of M.-made coffee.

He’s taking his last 2003 shower at what has become our place. Now, I get to reclaim the floor of my bathroom, replacing Muay Thai/Streetfighting/Business Week masculinity with I don’t know. Maybe Cosmo and the Atlantic Monthly? Although, I don’t think AM is femme-y enough to reclaim a bathroom. Who am I kidding, for awhile I had a homeowner’s repair guide in there, just so I could study up on heating and plumbing.

Ahhh, well, change is good, right?

(This post will likely be the only one anyone ever sees that clocks in at 7 a.m.)

Just checked the countdown timer on my home page — 9 hours and 22 minutes until M. is leaving on a jet plane.

It’s not an end, it’s a beginning. He’ll be jumping into a business venture that seems to fit him like a pair of 30/30 Levi’s 527s.

The dramatic part of me kind of loves the tragic loss aspect. Here is the first guy in a long time with whom I feel comfortable, and everyone around me, friends, family, comics, has nothing but kind vibes and good things to say. And, he’s leaving! Cue the violins already. It’s perfect in a very pedestrian, Lifetime Network kind of way. The tragedy of lovers torn asunder by circumstances and a fate they couldn’t escape.

In truth, he’ll be jetting back here on business and to take care of some stuff. Over dinner, he just plotted out how and where and why we were likely to see each other once a month through April. And, in further truth, I’m so wired to technology, it’s unlikely I’d be unreachable even as they were tossing shovelfuls of dirt into the hole around me.

But, I love the drama. I have to. It provides the only counterpoint to the various shitheads I have dated who still walk amongst us. In the universe I control (in my dreams), ex-boyfriends would fly to opposite coasts, and the good guys would stay.

Couple of other random notes: The depths of M.’s Western pop culture knowledge continues to amaze me. Today’s conversation was in regard to Andy Williams, the theme from Love Story and including Andy’s influence on the Osmond family.

Lest anyone think I am edgy and angry and all sorts of post-modern, post-feminist urban ethos things, guess again. What did I do in the face of my man leaving this side of the country? I baked cookies. As M. pointed out in regard to my happiness at spending a day taking pictures and generally snow-frolicking, I love a cliche. Just packed him little Ziplock bagfuls of cookies, nuts and M&Ms, and I put a water bottle in the fridge with filtered H20. You’d think he was walking to San Francisco. Deep down, apparently, I’m an earthy girly girl, who shows her affection with chocolate chips and snacks. Now, I have to go put on a pink flannel nightgown and bunny slippers and take some barbituates with Mescal.

Meanwhile, I’ll think of M. whenever I see a Tom Cruise movie.

So, just got up to go the bathroom and was blocked in my mission by a previous occupant. I guess that’s one of the weird little things that will be different at the end of the week when M. is gone. Funny what you can get used to, when it’s someone you like. I can remember much more annoying things from guys who I saw less frequently than I do him. Wait that sentence is too convoluted. The point is, mostly M. doesn’t bug the shit out of me, which makes him an exception.

While pondering this dating situation, I came across this website, which includes “Dating Disasters.” This one is my favorite disaster:

I am a 62 year old woman with 3 children and an ex-husband whom I divorced recently. I have been seeing other men and for many months, I have enjoyed inviting them over to my house for dinner and ‘game night’ (I’ve never ONCE been beaten at Bingo). All of my children are adults now and my ex husband lives in Oregon, so having men over is no problem (I’m constantly buying new games, though). Anyway, I had just met a nice attractive man who was born and raised in my hometown of Queens, New York. Of course, I invited him to my place one night for dinner, dessert, and a game of Monopoly. I had never met a man with such tidy and proper manners. However, I knew something was wrong when I asked him “How are Mickey and Toby? (These were the names of his dog and parrot)” and he responded with “THEY’RE DEAD, AND YOU’LL BE DEAD TOO IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP.” With this, he grabbed me by the back of my head and dragged me into the bathroom. He lifted up the toilet seat and tried to drown me in the toilet water. Luckily, he soon blacked out and collapsed on my bathroom floor. I finally made it to my feet and immediately dialed 911. Soon, an ambulance came and rushed Mike to the hospital as I stood in my driveway horrified. The next day, I called the hospital to make sure Mike was okay and they told me that he suffers from MPD or Multiple Personality Disorder. I knew nothing of this disease so they went on to explain that when Mike was in a nervous or frustrating situation, another part of his character or a totally different person would come out replacing Mike’s personality as I once knew it. Although Mike was a caring, kind, and considerate young man, ‘Doodles’ his ‘other half’ would come out. Doodles was a serial killer from Europe. I thought this was a very strange thing, especially being since Mike was not from Europe! I was a little frightened by this incident and decided perhaps Mike or Doodles was not for me. Oh well, I’ll try again.
— Elizabeth, 62

I think I like the non-plussed tone of a woman alone with a serial killer. Oh well, guess I’ll find another date for game night.

As the capture of Saddam brings more certainty that the Democrats will fail and GW will get a second term, in my depression I think.

In life I generally try to hear the other guy out, even when I think someone is wrong and stupid, and I am generally cordial to folks. In comedy circles, I will stand around talking with people who make me crazy or miserable, because to walk away seems rude. I try to not step on many toes, and I don’t ever want to climb on the back of someone else to succeed. And, sometimes I believe, even when experience proves otherwise, that pearls of wisdom may drop from unlikely lips.

Consequently, I am sometimes perceived as soft or not as serious as others or I get shouted over by people more forceful in fronting their own agendas. And, even when I have expertise, lesser mortals opine to me as equals, because I let them.

I am a weak intellectual who has to compulsively hear all sides and is as critical of myself as I am of others (if not more self-critical).

In short, I am a Democrat in the new millenium.

While we are discussing and evaluating and reading and blogging and generally jerking off anyone who asks politely, GW is blowing shit up. Blowing shit up is a far more interesting and compelling way to get attention. Capturing bad guys, blowing shit up, getting things done, using active verbs that scream out “Hey, look the fuck over here, I’m doing shit. Important shit.” That’s what will win. Self-promotion beats out quiet reflection in a marketplace with many voices.

Duh, right? Of course, people will listen to the only voice they can hear clearly.

Democrats generally and I specifically need to toughen the fuck up. What good are noble and lofty dreams when reality is trench warfare?

The Rambo Dee-Rob takes names and doesn’t take shit. Fuck with me, and I will tell you why you are pedestrian, banal, far from the coddled golden child that sucked on it’s mother’s teat of praise and support. I am poised to conquer your feeble world.

Or, I’ll just write a blog entry. That’s tough isn’t it?

After hours of exciting Saddam captured news, I would except one limit to free speech. Calling him the “Ace of Spades,” should be banned.

The heading of this entry is a quote from GWB in regard to the capture of Saddam Hussein. Strange word choice for warfare–“enchanting”?

So, I woke up to gray skies of an impending storm, possibly the last time M. walks in with a tray of muffins and coffee for my breakfast in bed, and the news of Saddam’s capture. Since it is very likely that the insurgent suicide bombers are working on their own, I don’t think Saddam’s capture will directly effect the Iraqis immediately. For us, here in the U.S. of A. I fear the worst; this capture will ratchet up GW’s popularity, and we’re subjected to four more years of this tomfoolery.

Here are some of the reactions of our fine politicians. What the hell is up with Leiberman invoking God? It’s as though there’s a competition between GW’s fundamentalism and Leiberman’s orthodoxy. Like “Hey, the Jews can ‘Praise the Lord’ too, you know. Get me an Old Testament, and I can thump it with the best of the Bible Belt.” Glad to see God still hates foreign regimes whether you are Christian or Jewish.

In the realm of trivial, especially compared to the world stage, this weekend is also the Boston auditions for Montreal’s Just for Laughs comedy festival. While I know everyone who is auditioning, and I know that much of my writing/performance is on par or better than several of the people slated, I, alas, was on no one’s list. Logically, especially in such a subjective realm, it’s just not my time, yet. Also, logically, I know that very possibly nothing will come of it for the people who are auditioning (the belief in the undercurrent of comments is that they generally focus on performers with management, who already have some foothold in the industry). Still in all, logic aside, there is a slight twinge from not being invited to the prom.

One of the central conundrums of trying to do stand-up comedy is true I think of any “artistic” endeavor. On the one hand, you strive to be original and genuine, and the newness that originality implies almost by definition that you won’t necessarily fit in. Meanwhile, you crave validation by the mainstream without sacrifice or question, which is a naive dream at best. Few of my comedy heroes (or music or art for that matter) actually succeeded through the least resistant path of early notice and acceptance by “industry.” Actually, very few people period succeed that way, my heroes or not. That, I guess, is the bitch of it all.

To know all of the above is not to actually avoid any hurt. Although, it does bring me to understand more fully that ego bruises are just bruises not broken, crippling blows.

While I enjoy the comedy of some and count a couple of people auditioning tonight at the Studio as friends, I can’t bring myself to go to tonight’s audition show. Last night’s outing to the auditions at The Emerald Isle in Dorchester was enough. (By the way, with a couple of exceptions on both sides, I was amazed at the list of people who were at the Studio v. The Isle. Realizing that there is not enough room to book everyone in one show, there were some folks who I would have thought Rick at the Studio would have wanted on his roster. Of course, it was also curious to me that The Isle was a site at all. So many mysteries I will never understand). More importantly for not checking out more comedy tonight is my desire to not torment M. any more with my comedy ego, in these his waning Cambridge days.

One last note on comedy, and then I will focus on more weighty matters, like taking a shower. I think one of the things that is quite potentially my strength is also my undoing in some ways. The facts are that I have a “career” job, have owned my own home for almost a decade, am living a fairly stable existence, have a print journalism degree with possibly a talent for writing and am older than most of the people at my stage of comedy development. I am generally quite happy that I am pursuing a dream, as it were, from an established, comfortable place relatively unfettered by hassles over money, rent, day jobs and the like. M. may be right that these facts are a testament to my having some shit together that others don’t or won’t.

Unfortunately, to some these things that I think (and M. tries to underscore often) are strengths are often misunderstood in the comedy community. It feels to me like I’m treated sometimes as a dilletante not a serious player. For the people who have only ever succeeded (or received recognition) even modestly in the world of comedy, it would be difficult to see how someone might live in several spheres. I have more resources to pick what would benefit me, and I have more risks if I choose unwisely. To someone who is my age with a narrow margin and fewer options, I may appear uncommitted and unwilling to sacrifice. One example of this issue is that occassionally I will watch “the door” at a club so someone can go the bathroom, etc., but I won’t ever volunteer to take on working the door. Why? Because, my days of minimum-wage toil are far, fucking behind me, and my street value is much more than the $10-20 people get for the night’s work. I am more than willing to perform for a tiny level of pay or no pay, since the benefits to me are far greater than the monetary gain, so I win. Selling myself low for a shitty job at shitty pay, such as working the door cash register, only cheapens me, and the goodwill it would engender is not good enough.

So, I get points for perspective and maturity and something to talk about, but I lose for not being a “starving artist,” which in truth is a pretty sucky way to live, but a fucking great rationalization for a lifestyle.

Ahhh, I can’t believe this is my last weekend with M.! I wonder what it will be like and feel like and all when he is safely on the West Coast.

(By the way, I think a few people also see my dating a normal person as a lack of commitment to comedy. In short, people suck.)

M. has proven to me that he and I are truly blessed. You see, Jesus wasn’t born in December at all, he like M. and me, was born in March. March 1, 7 BC actually, see here’s the proof.

So it breaks down like this:

Of course, this also proves that I’m closer to Jesus.

And for getting in the mood, today’s choice thanks to M. is Boney M’s version of “Mary’s Boy Child.”

Groom like the professionals!

I think one of my problems in life is that I appear to like people. This morning I couldn’t get away from friendliness.

At the busstop and on the bus, I had to talk with Sammy, my neighbor. He’s a nice older man, who tells me I’m “smart” and “strong,” which isn’t bad to hear. The other day he told me I should run for city council, because my talking is like a speech (or something like that). But, he’s kind of a simple guy, and I’m in the middle of listening to Al Franken’s Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them. Frankly, (no pun intended) Franken ripping on the right is much more interesting than hearing a 65-year-old Jamaican man complain that his wife was supposed to decorate the Christmas tree last night, but then “she just sat down.” OK, it’s a little interesting to hear a 65-year-old Jamaican man bitch about his wife, but not before I’ve had my coffee.

Then, at Dunkin’ Donuts I saw my new friend, who one morning asked me where I work and then asked me if I knew any of the people she knows who work there. Lately, I’ve been seeing her everywhere, including places out of context of Dunkin’ Donuts. She knows me. She knows I like an extra large with skim milk and no sugar. And, she knows that sometimes I buy a ‘donut’ and sometimes I don’t. She knows me.

Walking in to work, through the food court and the various buildings, was a gauntlet of various “hey, how you doing?” greetings, including the man who parks on the same Brookline street (illegally) as I do.

What all of these people have in common is that they don’t seem to realize that I am actually a miserable wretch of a human being. I misanthropically would rather give a perfunctory “fuck you” than feign all of this courtesy.

That’s it. Today is “Fuck You” day. Or, maybe I should plan that for tomorrow, since there’s going to be a baby shower for a woman in our office.

Yeah, from now on I’m a shark, a human battering ram, a bull, who just passes through roughly and moves on. Of course, I probably wouldn’t get to hear as many good stories that way. But, fuck it, I’ll make up my own.

I think it’s time to bring this website back into the public eye of my website (OK, it’s more like the invisible, unseeing, unknowing eye of private darkness). In honor of the baby shower tomorrow, more rants. I also found this page in the same vein.