All everyone ever wants, I think, is to have some fucking power over his or her own world. Some tiny grip on the edge of the cavernous mouth of death and dread and unknown, unknowable darkness and mortality. Something that makes you think you might possibly have some hope even though death is certain.

Or maybe it just makes you feel good and cocky, like having a little jingle of coin in your pocket or the fresh scent of a new lover around you like an aura. Either way, who among us doesn’t at least like to fuck around with the illusion of choice, right?

To that end, I’m re-working this motherfucking dung heap. (That’s a stupid metaphor. Fucking your mom is bad, and throwing shit into the mix? That’s just perverse.) Anywho, I’m changing the styles around a bit — check out the bottom of the right-hand column if you want to toy with some templates. Be warned, though, they are straight out of the virtual box, so most of them screw the bejesus out of the layout I got going on. Fixing that will havve to be another day’s project. For the sweet comfort of the familiar, and who doesn’t like the sweet comfort of the familiar, try using the layout called “dpr.”

I’ve also banished (at least for the whimsical short-term) almost all of the old posts. Today, they are like dead to me. Except the ones about my heroine, Pat, since, well, she’s not dead to me, albeit she ain’t what you would call living. I figure you gots to honor your mom, and some of that stuff I kind of like anyway.

Just like I’m trying to re-work my real-life house and chuck the old clutter, I’m trying the same experiment here. Although, given my total packratted compulsions, it’s really only an experiment. Trying on a new outfit, if you will. Dancing with a stranger. OK, building a new stranger from scrap and then trying to get the beast to dance with you. Dance, damnit, dance, I made you. Pleeeaaaseeee.

Anyway, this may very well be a new start. (Or not, because face it I am one equivocal son of a bitch, unequivocally so. OK, wait, not really a son of a bitch, because I’m a chick, and my mother could behave bitchily, but she wasn’t a universal bitch, but I do flip flop or worry and obssess or consider things fully. I guess I’m not sure, or wait, do I have to commit to what I am right now?)

I’ve started the mammoth, hmmm, make that colossal task of excavating my apartment. The detritus of about a decade is stifling.

In the course of the excavation, which should be photographed by National Geographic, because there’s a chance I’ll unearth a lost civilization, I have found evidence of a new inhabitant of my space. I think there is a mouse. Fortunately, all of the evidence seems to point to its being a very recent visitor, and I haven’t seen it yet. Of course, that could be because I don’t wear my glasses as much around the house. And, so far, none of my food seems molested.

It’s a weird time of year to be indoors for a mouse. My immediate property is policed by three feral-ish felines, though, who are always trying to get in my backdoor; I might be running a mouse-y safe house. Actually, the cats are not feral at all, but feral is a cool word. I mostly like feral children.

I might think about having a kid, if I could arrange for it to be raised by wolves first. That would rock the house, especially during parent-teacher conferences.

Anyway, I’m torn about what to do about the mouse, because it’s almost a tiny bit comforting to have another breathing mammal around. I’ve dated enough vermin to realize that particular comfort is fleeting, however. Besides, a real companion will be coming by soon enough. I guess I just don’t feel like killing anything these days.

Interesting to today’s events is a resurgence of searches including my full name finding me here. So, I searched the same searches, and I found this website, which has information about the Mi’kmaq Native Americans, who lived all up and down the Northeastern US and Canada. According to the site:

[August] 1 – 1722 – Richard Philipp, British Governor of Acadia, proclaims it illegal for any Acadian to “entertain” a Mi’kmaw person; Prudane Robichau is subsequently imprisoned and put in irons for entertaining a Mi’kmaw in his home.

I had always assumed the stubborn streak, desire to stick up for individual rights and all that was a direct genetic feed from my mom, Pat, who was always stubborn as hell and one of the most ethical people I think I have met. She had a strong sense of what is right and what is wrong and questioned any authority that told her otherwise.

But, here’s someone with my dad’s name, unusual spelling and all, ready to party with the enemy and get chucked into leg irons to boot. Jesus god, with that kind of lineage, it’s amazing I haven’t gotten into more trouble before now.

OH and it’s been one full month now since the complete and utter bullshit about my mental state and propensity to workplace violence began.

One month, and I still have not revealed the name of my employer. (Waiting for one last legal shoe drop…) My employer whose minions have crawled every corner of my website for the past month. Jesus Christ, don’t people have any real fucking work to do with tax payers’ money besides monitor me for signs of cracking?

By the way, word on the street is I really lost my job not so much over the threat of work place violence (because fucking hell we all knew that was a steaming dung heap of ridiculous, yet godawfully damaging, accusation), but from the “lapse in judgment” of continuing to write. Just to be clear, I lost my job for writing PERIOD.

I guess the deal is they get to accuse me of perhaps one of the worst things anyone has ever said about me in my life, bait me with coercive phone calls from both the people to whom I report, force me into a psych eval that I pass (and amuse the fucking hell out of the psychologist), and fucking fire me anyway. I on the other hand am supposed to shut the fuck up and roll with whatever punches they got and shut the fuck up some more.

Umm, people, I’m not Jesus, I don’t gotta turn the other cheek.

You know what has bugged the crap out of me for a while now, ever since I signed an email petition against the defense of marriage act bullshit? The emails I get from the organization behind it. Not because I am anti-gay rights. I am very much in favor of gays and their rights. You know, some of my best friends are queer. No, for real, not like radical chic friends, but really real friends. And they is gay. Mighty, mighty gay. Flamining even. OK, not that flaming, but still and all, gay.

What pisses me off is the organizations name: Human Rights Campaign. I think freedom and the right to love and be with whoever you choose, very, very important. Vitally important. BUT, when I think “human rights campaign” I think crippling third world poverty, torture, maiming, genital mutilation, death, starvation and more torture. Serious shit for people who probably won’t live past 10 years old or with all of their limbs and organs attached, let alone get married, let alone get to choose who they will marry, let alone worry about their sexuality.

Gay marriage is important. But for fuck’s sake, compared to shit getting blown up all over the Middle East and our own religious fanatical wingnut Commander in Chief and the erosion of civil liberties for every single last one of us regardless of race, creed, color, gender or sexual identity, it’s a fucking indulgence. Very first world self important. Human Rights Campaign, my ass.

By the way, in the interest of full disclosure. I have been aching to comment on the self-involved, self-indulgence of this organization and it’s name for eons. However, I was sent the link to the organization and their petition by a co-worker, and felt guilty about not joining in on an issue he thinks is all important.

By the way, his sending the link to me at all was an absolute and DIRECT violation of work policy forbidding any kind of political proselytizing using company email. But, I guess he’s immune to directly violating a written policy. Must be some kind of antibody. While I, on the other hand, am getting my sweet ass fired for a policy they ain’t even written yet. Fuck me, I guess.

One of my jokes begins that I did something that I am ashamed of…

Tonight it is more true than comedy. I sang karaoke. I figure that now the only depths to my depravity would be crack and turning tricks for said crack. “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” with my weblog nemesis, and I did both the Ellen Foley part and the Phil Rizzuto commentary, both badly.

I wonder what I should mention on my suicide note first — Job failure, Stand-up comedy or Karaoke?

Sitting here in limbo, limbo, limbo.

You know how people talk about the pleasure of anticipation, I don’t buy it. Fuck the tease, I don’t like a story with too much exposition.

Meanwhile, I’m about to take down the poll as to whether I should move. I’m almost at 65 total voters tallied, and over 75 percent think I should get the fuck out of this one-horse town. And, I gotta say, I’m tending to side with the mandate.

Of course, we don’t know where all of those voters work, maybe they have a different agenda from my happiness.

But, before I go, I’m doing something here I ain’t never done before. I told Avi Green that his folks could jam a sign onto my teeny-tiny front lawn. Oh yeah, I’m all poliltical.

Turns out in chatting with Avi, as he did a walk through of my ‘hood (he lives just a couple blocks away), that we are one degree of separation from each other by way of Baratunde Rafiq Thurston. Jesus god, Baratunde is like something in a movie where there are repeated signs that aliens have already beaten you to whatever rare corner you hit. There is no place in Cambridge/Somerville political comedy in which the marketing machine that is baratunde.com has not already planted it’s little flag of conquest before you’ve even stepped out of the door. The man ain’t exactly human.

TOMORROW NIGHT: Come watch some Boston comedians beginning to get their convention freaks on. Should be fun!

Tuesday, July 13, 8 p.m.

CORMIER’S COMEDY MADNESS
hosted by Janet Cormier
presents DEAR JOHN…the pre-Convention Comedy caper

ALL ASIA CAFE
334 Mass Ave
Cambridge MA (outside of Central Sq)
8 p.m., Tuesday, July 13
$5.00 admission

Line up includes some of the funniest, most outspoken comics in town:

Paul Day
Mandy Donovan
Doug Chagnon
Corey Manning
Rich Gustus
Dee-Rob

and featuring the Reverend Tim McIntire

Music by Lenguaviva and Jordan Carp