For the first time in days, eager to feel the sun on my face I left the house. The minute I got to the Harvard Square MayFair, the rains came. C’est la vie, Spring in New England. It was actually kind of nice walking around in the rain and watching people scramble. It made the line for free ice cream shorter. By the way, “Shrek’s Swirl,” which Baskin-Robbins describes as “green-colored grape sherbet and purple-colored green apple sherbet loaded with popping candy” is a little too frighteningly better living through chemistry. It’s so technicolor, it’s hard to believe it’s dairy based (if it is). In a rating system that even includes Bubble Yum, which I still like to blow now and again, Shrek’s Swirl may not rate as actual food. But thanks to the rain, I was also able to snag a couple of samples of Legal Seafood clam chowder. They gave some old lady a $10 coupon. I thought about rolling her for it. Old ladies get all the good stuff.

I went to the final party for the Boston Comedy Fest last night. In the end, what with the reminders of why I ain’t never gonna be no club comic and other indications that I don’t quite fit in to that type of “scene,” my resolve is a bit more strengthed to focus on what I do have going for me. Seriously, fuck the whole concept of contests and competitions, and fuck most of all the guy who word on the street says pulled my name from the list of the fest competitors (must not link to sight…not good idea…must resist). A lot of great people were left out, a lot of mediocre people were left in, so what’s it all show? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. I did get a chance to see some talented, original, funny people doing what they do and got a couple of free beers, so I guess I got my $35 entrance fee’s worth. Not to mention I got a couple of positive comments on the one set I did get to do and on my other fabulous set, since a couple of lucky folks got a peek at the tits du dee-rob from the owner of the phone cam and fellow naked comic. (I was thinking of adding another link right there, don’t you know, but if that man gets his new moblog going, I figure it patently unwise to mention my tits and his website all juxtaposed and shit. Discretion/valor something like that…)

A couple of other things I got out of the fest were the fun of driving around downtown in my convertible at 2 a.m. Convertibles rock and the freshness of night air blowing off the Charles River as you cross the Mass. Ave bridge (which is one of the best views of Boston you can get) CD player pumping is like feeling blood pump through your heart so that life begins.

The second thing is witnessing perhaps the sluttiest slut dress I’ve ever scene walking down the Boylston Place alley. This dress had it all, tight squeez-y looking probably unnatural fibers, ripply, slanted drapery hanging down one shoulder and one thigh, amazingly using maximum fabric to reveal maximum skin. It was hootchie with a capital ‘H.’ Best of all was the length, in truth, despite the slanting drape effect, while the woman was standing you could tell that the mysterious place where her thighs meet and connect was infintesimally close to the edge of the cloth in both front and back. From a purely engineering perspective, it is not conceivable that while bending or sitting there wasn’t going to be a clear reveal of crack or beaver.

If you’re a college chick in Boston in May, as opposed to say a supermodel or a porn star, what possesses you to look in the dressing room mirror and say “yeah, fucking right, this is the dress for me.” No, really, you don’t have to actually show your goods at the dance club to get a nice boy to dance with you. It’s much more compelling when it peaks out later in the privacy of your own room.

Alternately, I like to imagine chicks like that, sitting on the brink of, I don’t know, actual childhood and full on grown-up sluthood, don’t actually have their sexy shit together. So, right in the middle of her bootylicious gyrations, there are some big, old white cotton panties that her mom bought her for school.

One thing I will always remember about my mom, Pat never bought me the big, old white cotton panties like the other moms. As long as color and lace exist, why not sport a little style where no one can see it? Strangely, she bought herself the big, old white cotton ones, but her daughters were styling.