Not bad start to the weekend — hung out with the family on Friday evening and got to partake in my oldest brother’s pool, hot tub and pool table. Grown-up toys are fun.

Saw a midnight show of Exorcist: The Beginning, which didn’t suck as much as I expected at all. It had only four things in common with the original near as I can tell: (1) the name “Father Merrin,” (2) a kid in a shaking, moving bed, (3) a possessed person with make-up created slash marks on her face, because apparently that’s what evil demons look like and (4) crucifixes and more, crucifixes galore.

This morning I was greeted with affection, eggs, toast and coffee in bed and M.’s suggestion that I might be the most “normal” on in my family, a statement they most surely would contest and offer evidence to disprove. As mornings go, this one assuredly sure beats getting possessed by evil spirits.

I guess the downside would be my two oldest brothers’ fighting. But, honestly, that’s almost like noticing oxygen in the atmosphere. The normal state of existence is those two having some kind of disagreement. At least as adults, no one gets thrown around anywhere. Somewhere my mother’s ghost is howling “You kids are always at each other. Why can’t I get any peace?”

Speaking of fights, yesterday was a significant historic first. Political arguments were cropping up and some tension was rising, and I, your humble auteur, was no where near or part of it. I remained above the fray and succeeded in pissing off no one.

Perhaps I’m mellowing in my old age. M. would probably suggest his influence has made some kind of impact (Although I suspect that might lean toward the bitter, middle-aged chick getting a little man touch doesn’t need to fight. You know, in that “Jesus, that bitch sure need to get laid and that’d shut her up,” vein.)

I fucking hate these guys.

The down side of M.’s visit is his love for watching CNN and Fox News. He doesn’t watch Fox for content, but to see what’s up with the opposition and how low they can go.

As a result, I went to sleep last night absolutely indignant after listening to lies and more lies. By the way, I know other people have said it, but isn’t Alan Colmes the most pathetic, douche-y weenie of a Democrat? I feel bad every time he speaks. It’s like watching a Lifetime Television movie, and you just know he’s the pledge that’s going to get sodomized by the entire frat and die in a trunk, because he still things the frat guys are OK and good friends.

Of these alledged “truth-telling” vets, only one of them actually served with Kerry on a swift boat. That guy wasn’t in Vietnam, though, when the shit happened that they say didn’t. And, John fucking O’Neill, who wrote the book behind the swing-state commercial and who Fox is blowing 24/7, has a fine heritage of Kerry-baiting dating back to Nixon and the Vietnam War. Yeah, he’s a fucking credible, bitter, old dude. Good to see there are still hawks willing to be the standard bearers of the rightness and justice of Vietnam. History has shown them to be on top, right?

And, how fucking cynical is it to say that on Kerry’s war record there were lies and distortions that can’t be trusted throughout all of the reporting? Let me get this straight, swifty vet guys, Kerry was able to manipulate reports for his own selfish gain of medals during his service with the U.S. Navy, right? If that’s true, aren’t you saying that the Navy and its reports can’t be trusted? Is that really what you want to say, just so you can say Kerry sucks?

Fucking idiots.

If you want to read some of the patterns of lies and get a handle on the disinformation of the right wing, check out disinfopedia.org and eriposte.com’s “Swift Boat Veterans for “Truth” v. The Truth.”

Meanwhile, I’m going to find the nearest person named either Sean or Hannity and kick him in the nuts.

Besides being a sucky Foreigner song, “cold as ice,” is a fine phrase to summarize my association with the visiting M. He loves AC blasting at full volume (or whatever 11 is in AC speak).

Gotta go….

I should have posted earlier in the day and/or week that I was performing at the Comedy Studio tonight. Honestly, though, between it being Wednesday and the completely suck, lackluster performance from the last time I was there, I decided screw it. (That and my computer mildly shitting the bed; well, the one I wouldn’t have to share.)

Instead, I focused on the egg foo yung (or however them orientals* spell it) in my future and figured if nothing else, M. and I were back in a Cambridge chinese restaurant whirl.

As should now be expected, whenever I expect nothing and worry not a wit about the crapfest in which I am likely to dive, it turns out fine, fine and dandy. Unexpectedly, there was a full house, thanks to some staff activity from a tutoring center, and happily I brung on the laugh-type making jokey jokes. And, everyone had a pretty good night, including those who I have secretly disdained. (Oh, sure, write about “disdain” on your website and call it a secret, won’t I ever learn?)

Nah, really, it was a good show.

By the way, speaking of secret conversations and all being out on the WWW, turns out M. deserves credit for many, many things just simply by being. I learned today that my neighbors like me, my comedy was more relaxed, a woman of color enjoys talking with me and I walk a little taller all because of the man, the legend, who one friend has dubbed “Captain Linux.” Good fucking god, what a lucky woman I am.

* Orientals – not so much a racial slur as a childhood remembrance. Apart from the obvious colonialist obnoxiousness of occidental/oriental is it that bad?

If you carefully read this page (and if you do, I might suggest a more uplifting hobby. I hear birdwatching is quite relaxing), you may have noted the return to the Bay State of M., who has been sojourning in the Bay area. Clearly, the man digs bays.

If you noticed such a thing, you may have assumed I have not been writing because of my single devotion to his visit and, in fact, his mere presence. While I would like to say that is true, because I’m sure he deserves, and might enjoy, the attention, I cannot. Seriously though, I have no gauge for these things, but wouldn’t it be incredibly stalker-rific to truly drop everything. I mean men are cool and all, and they come in real handy for certain jobs a “lady” can’t do by herself (well, she can, but it’s not the same), but I would guess that I’m possibly a bit attractive by virtue of not being so cock-whipped that I live without a life.

In addition to spending time with the boy-o, I seriously fucked my desktop OS through impatience. (Turns out if you have automatic upgrading turned on and Apple is releasing a software upgrade for the OS, you probably should let it finish loading. D’oh!)

By the way, two geeks sharing a single laptop is less than ideal. (At least M. is a pleasant man with whom to share, but our respective email joneses are tough to kept fed without 24/7 access.)

In other news, my fascination with weatherman Warren Madden, is becoming sillier and more sinister seeming. I mentioned my conversation with Kevin about how we both failed in our childhood relationships with Warren to a group of people at dinner the other night (mostly so I could announce my favorite new self-deprecating thought — that of all the best and brightest I hung with back in the day, so far my mark on the world is unemployment). I had completely forgotten that two of my dinner companions also knew Warren (when he left the bullshit public school system of which I am a product, he went to their private, Catholic high school.)

They, too, were interested in the whereabouts of the erstwhile science and math geek boy. Now, thanks to my insanity (and I mean that glibly not literally for my stalkers out there who can’t tell the difference), they may also be “googling” good old Warren.

I don’t know whether it is the particular mellifluousness of his name or maybe just the two-beat rhythm of first and last, but I cannot say Warren without Madden.

And, if my mother were alive today, I’m sure she would be interested in the links I have found. To her, Warren was the pinnacle of hope of what an eager, bright child might be and later become as an adult. Even into adulthood, she might ask me, “Whatever happened to Warren Madden?”

Alas, it was not to be that I would be the pinnacle of hope of what an eager, bright child might be to my dear mater. Perhaps if I studied more and was a tad less sarcastic. (Yeah, right, like that was gonna happen.)

When I was a little kid, I think the hardest thing for me to deal with was the secret lives the older kids seemed to have. I would have to go to bed, and my brothers and sister would be up and about, doing whatever mysterious rituals they were allowed when I was alone in my exile.

From my bed I would lie awake hearing the dragging of chairs to the table or TV shows foreign only to me because of their broadcast time or the music from one brother’s forbidden, untouchable stereo system. I would lie still and concentrate on the noises trying to discern what I was missing, what world was passing me by and would forever remain a mystery.

I still have trouble with the feeling that something is going on without me.

Tonight, my attention was where it should be and where I wanted it to be, getting ready for M.’s return to Cambridge. I had some cleaning to do, towels to put out, a shower to take, cream and coffeee to buy. (You don’t ever want to spend wonderful quality time with M. sans caffeine. Just ain’t pretty.) And, of course, there was the nervous anticipation, free-floating anxiety, happiness, fear, more happiness, more inexplicable nervousness, and general neurotic vortex to live in my own little head. (I like to suck the joy out of fun events with excessive worry, it really allows you to focus in a zen kind of way. OK, not zen really, what’s the word…um… fucked up, yeah that’s it. Fucked up.)

Really, though, I was happy toiling around my apartment to make sure he felt welcome in his return.

But, at the same time, friends of mine were going to be rocking the house at this particular upscale establishment with their own comedy show. Along for the ride were some of my favorite performers from around town. I swung by the hotel in the afternoon and already about 10 people had gathered to start preparing for the show, which would have stand-up, video, traditional sketches, and many, many seemingly unplanned “distractions.” Besides the planned flash mob, unplanned flesh mob, a wedding DJ, the thing I wanted to see was the staged fight from two audience members. I’ve seen them before, a man and a woman, incredibly physical with a lot of fake blood.

Afterward, the plan was to party in the hotel room given by the hotel to the night’s performers.

The part of me that always listened for what the older kids were doing, wonders how the show and afterparty were.

Awww, Man, there goes one of my heros.

Bon appetit in heaven, Julia.

I’m leaving the post below as is, even with the appalling random letters.

After doing a show, hanging out a bit with the family, stopping off to check in at the end of another late show, getting hugged by a comic who generally tells me to “fuck off” and having a longish talk with my favorite M., I was pretty dead tired. But, I tried posting anyway, and literally dozed off at the keys. The extra or wrong letters are my numb, sleepy fists hammering at the keyboard randomly, as drool trickled down my chin.

Now, I am embarking on a tension ridden game of beat the clock. I have thoroughly trashed my place, pulling everything out so that it will be removed, either by yardsale or charity. I have to make enough order out of chaos in the next 24 or so hours to make M.’s return comfortable. In that same time period, I have to get something minor fixed on my car, go on an annual ‘girls night out’ type dinner, do laundry, buy at least a few groceries, fix my desktop ‘puter’s OS, and help someone doctor a picture with Photoshop.

Egads, unemployment is more taxing than one would think.

Ironically, I just picked up an old Utne Reader circa 2001 with an article on eliminating clutter from your life. Maybe I saved it because of the picture of Jean Piaget’sfamously messy desk. (I couldn’t find it now, but I’ve seen it as a poster.)

Anyway, part of the article was about barriers that make you opt for clutter rather than go through life more unencumbered. I think when Pat died, I began to feel a lot less attached to the mountains of shit I had accumulated, which had become a kind of wacky homage to her pack-rattish soul.

During the now I realize rather unfulfilling relationship with the ex, I think some of my junk was an impermeable wall erected to protect myself from the inevitable rejection. You know, why make room for him in my life if he wasn’t going to stay anyway and would probably not even ask to figuratively ‘come in.’

But, now, I’m ready. I’ve been going through shit half amused at why I kept some of the stuff at all. I’ve been picked shit up, looking at it and thinking, “Yeah, I can live without this…” Like the various sheets of fake tattoos I keep finding. I don’t even like tattoos.

Unfortunately, I’ll be 386 years old before I actually achieve the zen simplicity I seek. Let’s hope someone in that distant future has the common sense to sweep up my corpse rather than hold onto it.