Yeah, belly dancing. Ended a weird week of meetings and bullshit and meetings and training and bullshit with dinner with Mason. Any Boston comedians who might stumble across this shit here might know Mason. Funny chick. Nuts, but funny. Together we just ended up this week taking over a little corner of work and got some extra dough in the deal for our troubles.

So we’re drinking wine at the Morrocan place that’s between our apartments and the belly dancing starts. I have no idea where to look or what to do, because a woman undulating just doesn’t do it for me. In our social awkardness and our respective cultural reserve (Mason’s Southern and mine New England Catholic), we are just sheepishly looking, looking away and laughing. The belly dance chick was blond and totally American. We chatted quick when she asked us to get up and dance. Yeah, fucking right, that’s going to happen.

As Mason might say, “Good Times, Good Times.”

Must have been the wine, but I let Mason take a picture with her phone with me in a too-small fez and the belly dancer chick. If she sends it I will post, because honestly I have lost a lot of my shame and embarassment in this life.

It is unlikely you will ever find me wearing this: The best part of this shirt I think is if your skin tone is off, rather than a tattoo it will just look like a bad shirt. Oh wait, it just looks like a bad shirt.

Cliched “avid readers” may remember my apparent hatred of a job candidate. Maybe it’s the karmic energy of unloading about him here rather than more harmfully to the people who needed to hear my feedback (I opted for constructive comments, rather than rabid ranting, because I’m a “team player”). Anyway, he will not be joining me on our “team” and, in fact, it looks like what will be implemented is a version of the alternative plan I suggested. The downside is, I won’t be able to implement my going down in a blaze of glory exit strategy.

Other readers may remember some scathing shit I wrote about a chick here who is so girly I grimace in return to all smiles in her presence unable to succumb to the charms of her incessant nervous giggle, which masks her complete inability to master simple accounting basics like arithmetic. (And, frankly if you do remember, what the fuck, you really ought to get out more, turn off the computer, have an ice cream sundae, um, live.) Anyway, that chick will apparently be grabbing her hat and heading for the door moments before it ass slaps her.

SO, BEHOLD WORLD, my foolish tapping here is mighty. Mere words from my keyboard and you are gone. Done. Finished.

I must be careful. It is truly an awesome power, I must harness and use wisely.

In a complete contrast and a vivid reminder of my true impotency, I suppose I should also compile a list of shows that don’t want me and other assorted failings in the world of comedy. Looks like the Boston Comedy Festival’s list of comedians has been updated.

And, yup, yours truly is not among the ranks.

I think my new comedy goal should be total exclusion from all local comedy activity. At this rate, should be easy. (One might point out that these setbacks could very well be an indication of the quality of my product. But, truly, and not delusionally, if one were to delve into the wretched pools that comprise the comedy “scene” one, objectively, would find “good” and “bad” are not the sole criteria for time on stage.) Ahh, why do I do this shit at all?

Is it karma, kismet, coincidence, conspiracy?

I realized there was something very wrong with the steering in my car, so I went to the dealer and sat for many hours tonight for phase one of repairs for some kind of crack to the place where the power steering fluid lives. Without a computer and my cell phone unable to connect to my email, the isolation was complete.

As I sat, I thought, “Huh, I haven’t heard from M., wonder what he’s up to?” He calls. He’s been busy, sitting in a Pep Boys trying to find out if it was a drained battery able to spark back to life or a dead one in his car.

He was calling from the waiting room where he was sitting and waiting, reaching me in the waiting room where I was sitting, also waiting.

Cue spooky music and wavy mystic lines. Just like everyday people featured in a Time Life book series, we were separated by 3,000 miles and still living parallel lives.

What does it mean? What does all of this mean!?

For complicated reasons (either in actually or as constructed in my head), I had a couple of light beers with lunch. I don’t drink in the afternoon. I remember why now. I want to nap.

Instead, I will meet in 10 minutes with a woman who drives me crazy. She’s a particular kind of scientist, very linear. She makes assertions about reality and how money works or goods are purchased or things happen with grant support. They are invariably wrong, but clearly based on her own linear progression from her own belief system.

I respond by refuting her belief system. I describe the actual administrative linear path. She stares at me with a blank stare of disbelief and attempted patience. She is nonplussed by my thickness, my density, my inability to grasp her linear progression. She explains herself again, more slowly, a bit defensively.

I stand my ground.

She repeats.

And so the dance begins.

I must win, because, you see, I am ultimately responsible for cash flow. But the dance always tires me.

I stayed younger by three hours traveling west across time zones. Back East, I’ve gained the time back with interest. I’m dragging. Sleeping is definitely a problem for me. I should do it more. I don’t. I dozed off watching the 11 p.m. news, roused myself and am now awake. Insomnia is for retards.

Anyway, I destroyed my photo gallery, but I have now almost succeed in rebuilding it. No captions, though. Why don’t you write your own in little cartoon bubbles over your head, at least to you they would likely be more interesting than anything I could write. Try a foreign language, adds intrigue.

Anyway, as my vacation fades into the golden West of my imagination, I notice I was more relaxed just a day or so ago. Was it vacation or was it the West? Was it M.? Was it sunshine and happiness? Was it listening to the Eagles while sitting on Hawaiian print car seats in a VW Jetta?

Maybe I was just born for a life of leisure and work is destroying my soul. Yeah, that’s it. Fucking work is killing me. I am an artist; I am a hothouse flower; I am Jonathan Fucking Livingston Fucking Seagull. I should be floating and soaring, riding breezes, being alive. But, no, I trudge in the dark, burdened by toil, calloused hands, weary muscles, stress and repetition. So, alright, I have a cushy office job, but still in all, it ain’t art. And, yeah, today I was told what my likely raise and promotion will be, but it doesn’t feed my soul. I am an empty vessel, joyless, cowed. The man has kept me down another day.

It may be safe to say that the most accurate birthday present I received was from my sister:

In no particular order, here are the highlights of my trip:

In regard to the post below, if it’s the wrong “S-” his narcissism is powerful indeed to project his identity onto the mystery stranger…

Man oh man, vacation is over. WOE is truly me.

I’m having a little trouble falling asleep, although I’m f’ing tired. I’m afraid tomorrow morning will find me less than bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Here’s something interesting, unrelated to the vacation. (I’ll write about that tomorrow, when I have time and energy.)

This card was in the mail when I got home with a return address I don’t know and no name.

I’m pretty sure “S-” is my ex. The one ex that in retrospect I truly wish I hadn’t met. The ex who told me my over-emotional behavior during the week after my mom died was just a pathetic attempt to get him back in an effort to stave off the loneliness of being almost 40 and single. Gee, and I thought it was grief.

Yeah, whatever, um. By the way, how far the fuck could you be from my life, yet still think you’re important enough for the breezy initial signoff?

GOD, I am SOOOOO happy that there is sufficient distance now that I don’t really know if “S-” is you.

Meanwhile, M. doesn’t give me cards with angels and sentiment. He treats me well.

Let’s see now, there’s “S-” if “S-” is who I think he is, who never did anything for me without calculating what it did for him, and a card. On the other hand, there is M., who incidentally I refer to as M. but who would probably sign his whole name, because a cute little bit of insecurity would make him worry that I wouldn’t know which M., in short M. who is devoid of your narcissism, who just spent a whole week making sure I felt special and didn’t need a card.

I wonder with whom I would want to spend my time and energy. Here’s a hint, I will waste no more on you, “S-” of mystery. Get on with your fucking life already, I have and I couldn’t possibly be this happy if you were in it. I dub this the last “S-” laden post ever.

More importantly, here’s how I spent my last day of vacation:

The vacation is winding down, which pretty much sucks. I’ve been getting used to the West Coast clock and hanging around and falling asleep warmed by M.’s body and waking up with my arms around him.

It’s going to suck to be back in the cold of Boston, especially when I’ll stay up too late because of the time shift. Shivering, alone, awake, oh no, can you feel the pathos?

So for my last night in the Golden State, we’re heading into San Francisco. I’ll try not to suck here:

One World Cafe
1799 McAllister Street, San Francisco
Comedy Open Mike
Fridays • 7:30 pm

M. is pretty cool about the comedy thing; he actually looked on the web and called around to some places, including this one.

I think I’ll wear one of his birthday present shirts for good luck, while I’m trying not to suck.

Since it’s already after noon, I guess I’ll take a leisurely shower now.