Today’s conundrum, I can’t decide to file under “Huh?” or “What the FUCK?”

The place of employ is a pretty intense environment of some incredibly gifted and dedicated folks doing all sorts of saving mankind, that sort of bullshit, work. I, as per usual in the past decade and a nickel or so, am not actually pursuing anything intellectual, life altering or otherwise good-work like. Nope, I just like to support smart people doing smart things.

(It’s probably some fucked up perversion that I’m spending my time being a wicked smart among a tier of society, administrative support, which is rarely recognized for its intellectual acumen, rather than maybe having a job where I would have a secretary of my own. Overachieving in the slow lane.)

So, some days there ain’t nothing to do but fuck around on the world wide web, write, bug my beau at his job, call friends Back East and generally slack. If the phone isn’t ringing and nothing’s due, I can be quite efficient at doing very little and collecting a paycheck.

Lately, there’s been a wave of the other kind of day. Days when the phone doesn’t stop, people keep stopping by and you decide to stay a few minutes longer past day’s end to toss out a few emails and settle a couple things, just so you don’t start the next day already feeling behind. Today was one of those days. It was a tad compounded by a visitor who was slow to leave and wasn’t my view of low maintenance.

Nonetheless, I left in an upbeat mood, thinking “Oh well, tomorrow I guess I’ll do some of my own stuff at their desk.” I hit the their free gym and drove home roof down, tunes honking loud and sunshine still on my face.

A couple blocks from my abode, my cell phone rings. It’s not the boyo as expected, it’s the boss. She has a quick question and is very, very, very sorry to bother me. I answer the question, really not a trouble at all, but the boss goes on to ask about my staying late. She’s quite adamant and congenial in insisting I have to take care of myself and my own personal life and not work extra time. You know, don’t let myself get all sucked into overwork and worry, leave on time and just do what I can do.

Sounds great.

Except for one thing, this whole thing about extra time and taking care of myself has come up on my cell phone. After work. When I’m almost home. When the reason it sounds like a bad connection is because of the wind through my convertible and the stereo cranked in the back. When, you see, I’m living my life and taking care of myself and have left the office.

Now the puzzle I must solve is how to explain to an actually brilliantly bright woman (when it comes to her research and book-learned shit anyway) that these scenarios are irreconcilable. Either, I take your phone calls off hours, or we all give a shit about the confines of my 40-hour existence, and when the day ends work stops, no matter the looseness of the ends.

Personally, I would rather work a bit extra and not be bugged on my own time. Truth is, when I start hitting comedy clubs hard, I’ll be turning off the cell and letting voicemail be my friend. You gots to do what you gots to do.

But, how do you explain to someone exactly where your boundaries lie and that what, I think, is her sincere concern is a tad misplaced.

I’m not sure, but I may have just become my mother. Isn’t that one of the greatest fears of any daughter?

Normally, I’m quite competent with technology. But, a little while ago, I made a mess of some conference calling. First sending people to a line already in use, and then being unable to conference everyone from my line.

AAAARRRGGGHHH.

Part of the issue was the boss waiting for me to get it right and at first virtually on her cell phone and then in person as she walked through the door. She was talking, and I was pressing buttons and anticipated responses were not happening.

In those few moments, I was possessed by Pat as panic rose and confusion mounted. I only wanted to scream,

“Quiet down and let me get my bearings!”

The chaos, the news and the frustration of being close to a solution, but being nagged when I needed all brain cells on deck, and in that flash, I channelled Pat. Her voice was in my head.

First, here’s a hardy welcome to the world of writing meaningless thoughts on the web (Oh, wait, that’s just why I do). The newest on the scene, and one of my favorite Boston comedy folks is Dot Dwyer.

It makes me homesick reading up on her adventures in Beantown.

Not much else going on, except for completely random, incoherent, meandering thoughts inside my skull cavity.

Among the thoughts, I’m pretty sure that our fearless leader GW is saying that the leakers of CIA operative identity would surely be fired with the qualifier if they acted illegally implicates Karl Rove pretty damn good. Obviously, though, good enough to lead him into a twisted semantic game of what’s illegal activity.

Can you say cover-up?

(By the way, the Christian Science Monitor has a quick opinion piece by Daniel Schorr simplifying for even the biggest right-wingnut why Bush’s behavior is scandalous. It’s not a partisan issue when the Whitehouse lies, smears and covers shit up. The link is here (but bear in mind my ability to add links to posts is a tad messed when I post by email).)

Finally, with my precocious, pretentious vocabulary, I am stymied by one word, and I think we need a new one. The concept/word is that of love. Sadly, a word for which I have completely mixed emotions.

Seems kind of stupid and linguistically short-sighted that one word covers the howling, weeping, small feeling left in the wake of millions (OK, more like five) cruel guys, as well as family, friends and quiet domesticity.

Right now I’m going with the paradigm of”I wicked don’t hate M.”

By the way, it’s fun and wonderful and all that yada yada, whatever, BS living with M., but I am apparently pining for an unattainable pure love. A love for which I will likely die not having reached even its shadow.

Yesterday, while driving through SF’s North Beach area (that wacky chunk of history that always makes me picture the Beats walking out of the City Lights Bookstore and into a steamy coffeehouse or seamy bar and now is just full of regular folks and tourist eating mediocre Italian), driving through North Beach we saw a couple, a man and a woman, each wearing headbands with cute, little kitty ears. Together in a couple-y, adorable, happy, smiling, kitty-loving way.

I yearn to be so much in coupledom that wearing matching kitty ears seems like a fine idea.

Alas, it has been pointed out to me, such a life is not meant to be mine. I asked M. if he loved me enough to wear kitty ears with me. Without hesitation or equivocation, he quire firmly replied “No.”

More kindly he explained, “I don’t like cats.”

I was going to name this post “Literally looking to get chopped into pieces,” but I don’t know if that will be the end, so I cannot say for sure if it’s metaphoric. I mean, on Court TV’s and A&E’s various offerings, spiking the live-in’s KoolAid with antifreeze seems to be de rigueur, and who am I to blow against the wind? (Additionally, he seems to favor the blue-flavored Gatoraid, so I’m halfway there.)

You see, M. was born to taunt me into craziness. Yesterday’s post about the fact (as far as I’m concerned it’s a fact) that in California irony, poetic license, figures of speech, sarcasm and all that fun shit are practically non-existent. It works for the folks here, much like “Have a nice day” must have been coined here, and they must have really meant it.

Even at an eye exam today, I mentioned the literal thing to the eye doctor in response to his asking what I had discovered different here from the East. He, a native Californian per his bio, literally said nothing. I’m assuming the concept of literal and figurative just isn’t on the collective radar screen. (And there I am using “radar screen” as a metaphor, a boring, cliched, hackneyed metaphor, but not a literal “radar screen.”)

Back to M., though, who appears to be hankering for a murdelation coming his way. ALLLLLLLL DAYYYYYYYYY, he used literally in sentences, both in clarifying literal meaning and dramatically and ironically to point out what should be figurative.

He did this LITERALLY all day long.

One of the hardest things I have found about transitioning to the Left Coast life is that everyone seems way more literal here.

I was warned when I got here by the Dutch girlfriend of one of M.’s old friends that my direct manner of speaking might be at issue, as it had been for her. She’s also quick, funny and outspoken.

I think part of the problem isn’t the directness, but the fact that when channelled through a literal filter some comments just drop into a weird abyss of effrontery. Take an exchange yesterday with my new boss, who is rather direct herself and assures me prefers that to a more roundabout manner.

First, I should explain that there’s a certain amount of contact with public officials and figures from my little phone filtering desk. And, there’s a certain amount of discretion and protocol required, such as figuring out that former elected officials still get addressed as “Honorable” if you send them mail, and who works for which philanthropy named after a long-dead, robber-baron industrialist or more recent tech entrepreneur. That I’m no stranger to flipping through on-line versions of the NY Times, Washington Post, various magazines or Wonkette doesn’t hurt.

So one such figure of import or note or at least written about in the Times kind of guy had left the boss some voicemail. She was jokingly referring to its cryptic, halting, “Um, well, I guess if you could call me back…” nature. She was on a bit of a role joking about it and speculating on what he wanted.

To my ear, what she had described was logically, given some background news indeed written about in the Times, employment related. Politics has a whole lot of flow on the who’s in and who’s out obviously.

What I joked back, though, because it also parallels the uncertain, humble delivery described, was “Maybe he wants to ask you out.”

I thought it was clearly absurd and obviously meant jokingly, riffing off of what she had said. But, moments later, as the conversation screeched to a painful halt, where she followed up with “Do you know how old he is? And, he has a wife,” I realized the errors of my ways. I responded pathetically, “Um, yeah, I didn’t literally mean “ask you out,” it’s just, you know, um, like a teenager on the phone, leaving a message, to like a girl…”

Argh.

Now I know what was meant, which I never understood, when people talked about British TV shows or specifically Monty Python or John Cleese, as a “different” kind of comedy. Sarcasm, irony and absurdity were the conversational styles preferred in my childhood home, so I always “got” the Brits. And, my mother loved that shit, feeling right at home watching barb-y or absurd conversation.

I guess it’s different, because there’s a whole chunk of the US that just doesn’t get it.

I’m forcing myself to right for the sheer practice and will of it all. In other words, pardon me for the giant pile of crap you may have just encountered.

Let’s see, there’s shit falling apart, like the cell phone I accidentally left in the pocket of some shorts as they went through the full wash cycle. Or maybe the flat tires I keep getting on my bike.

But, then they don’t fall completely apart or things get better, not sure which it is. The cell phone dried out a bit and started working and gradually over the past few days functionality increased as evaporation saved the innards. And, it turns out I’m not getting flats I’m just none too bright on the proper use of Presta valves. A little studying and the tires will get rolling.

I’m probably going to write about the cell phone rising from the dead here, if only to break the pattern of recent posts there.

California and work still have little lifestyle surprises, about which I could be writing. I lack the will to try to find the sparkle in East/West difference cliches, though.

Encountering a chick exercising her voice operatically, as in actual voice lessons and exercises was today’s “California is weird” encounter. Then again, I once watched a guy park the baby carriage he was pushing and tightrope walk across a chain stretching across a Cambridge driveway.

Might as well sleep.

This guy recently wrote about his need for sweat. I’ve been getting physical my own bad self, even though I hate gyms with the passion and vigor I generally reserve for inconsiderate houseguests.

But, out here in the Left, there’s just not all the same opportunities for strolling as there were near my Cambridge condo. And the lifestyle change back to a cushy office job has made cushy an apt term for my ass and gut. A Lot more dee-rob to love and all, but too squishy for me to stand.

Unlike the weblog post linked to above, I think I might stick to the gym for a bit simply because of sheer access. Each evening, in order to get my car out of the parking garage in my swanky workplace, I have to walk directly by the on-site, up-to-date, almost always empty and absolutely free gym. No money and no effort getting there removes a couple of key rationalizing obstacles.

The real downside is M. and I are becoming such a cutesy, cliched couple, I drool a little vomit down my front whenever we pass a reflective surface. He’s been training for a half-marathon in the fall, and I’ve started on my little fitness regimen, so we regroup in sweats after work, looking all action Barbie and Ken. (A homeless guy even told us we were a good looking couple.)

The other downside is I had to face my New England reserve and sense of hierarchy, here in the Wild West where those rules apparently don’t apply. I ended up in the women’s locker room trying to adopt a stance, body language and facial expression appropriate to a casual chat with the shirtless VP. (By the way, the ivory towers of East Coast academe seem so fucking oppressive and ridiculous in their absolute love of hierarchy and keeping your place. You never no how much you’re being fucked with until the fucking stops.)

Apart from chatting with a semi-clad executive, this place continues to seem unlike a real office and more like a TV show office. The other day, I walked into the president’s office with a letter that needed signing. I was greeted warmly as he showed me his computer screen and asked me if I ever read The Onion, as he had been doing at just that moment.

Since I shut of all access to my site from my work IP, I’ve posted through gmail. But, as of late, it’s added some %20 characters and other non-human reading garbage, so I’m trying to post right now through Apple Mail. Sadly, I alone will be unable to see the results and proof them as necessary.

Today I’m smiling to myself, wondering if it is the day that Karl Rove will finally implode. Probably not, since that man is more weaselly than, I don’t know, a weasel, with Teflon-coated skin to boot. I can’t really envision a world where he’s out of the picture. GW isn’t a real boy yet, so he can’t exactly fire Gepetto yanking his strings and all. I think Laura Bush’s mentioning that they are all good friends is just a plot point to remind the audience that even if Iago is fired, he’s still gonna be around…

What fucking kills me about the discussion of Rove as a victim of partisan attacks, a la this quote from the NY Times:

“He wasn’t talking at all about her identity,” said Ken Mehlman, the chairman of the committee and a protege of Mr. Rove’s, accusing Democrats of playing an unseemly game in criticizing the chief strategist of Mr. Bush’s victory last year.

is kind of two-fold. First, there’s the kind of “What the Fuck?” incredulity. Karl Rove, the man who said liberals were all pussies for not going along with Bush’s war last month, is complaining about partisan attacks? Please, Karl, you might be many things, but you ain’t no victim.

The other interesting thing is how the logic seems to closely parallel the kind of wordsmithing for which Clinton was positively CRUCIFIED, during the Lewinski investigation. It depends on how you define “leak” or “sex” or you say tomato, I say tomato. And, apparently mentioning Wilson’s wife isn’t really identifying Plame, because, I guess, he must have several secret wives, right?

In the grand scheme, I sure as fucking hell hope history records this past decade accurately. Clinton got a little head, was less than forthcoming on facts and no lives were lost.

Bush, on the other hand, out and out lied (unless he alone is still looking for the phantom WMDs, kind of like OJ and the real killers) and possibly aided and abetted an act of treason, what with the whole protection for covert intelligence and all (during wartime no less). He is doing it all for love of country and god and all sorts of happy horseshit without the simple logic of Clinton getting his dick sucked, and people have died and more casualties will come.

Talking Points Memo and its cafe area have my paranoia on full alert. It’s now hard to imagine there isn’t some kind of Watergate cover-up and good, old-fashioned Nixonian smears and tricks ruling the Whitehouse right now. Even Nixon didn’t manipulate us directly into war.

As for the journalistic integrity thing and protecting sources, this column reminded me completely of the lessons learned in journalism school.

We were taught, back in the distant and innocent past of the 1980s, that you just didn’t go around promising to protect a source that wasn’t a whistleblower or at some kind of risk, and only if there was no other way. Even when you look at the relatively romantic notion of a “Deep Throat,” the professors taught us that background sources might provide a lead, like “follow the money,” but good reporting required getting other sources, checking and rechecking and getting shit on the record. (Not to mention checking out the motives as to why the leak might be leaking.)

Most of all, we young students of the reported word were cautioned, there’s a whole big, bad world of hard-ball playing sources, who would be playing you any way they can if you let them. Giving up the confidential source card to them in the game is about as smart as shouting out “Damn, look at all these aces,” whilst playing poker. Journalists like Time magazine’s Matt Cooper should be required to watch the movie Absence of Malice, while punching themselves on the forehead and repeating “Karl Rove used me.”