It seems particularly weird to have partied on 9/11, right after New Orleans sunk below the sea.

I can’t let the day go by without paraphrasing our great leader, GW, as he spoke to Michael Brownie, saying back to Bush, “You’re doing a heck of a job, Georgie.”

Seriously, imagine how much more fucked up it would have been today if Al Gore had one. I mean, think about that. We would likely not be in a quagmire of a war in Iraq, since bookish, nerdy Al likely would have known that Saddam wasn’t responsible for 9/11.

He might have even tried economic policies and diplomacy, since he, of course, was a pansy-weak intellectual.

And, that Al and his wonkish book learning, not to mention cry-baby bellyaching about the environment, he might actually have made sure that the watershed surrounding New Orleans was maintained to help in flood control by limiting river re-routing and development. Such a party pooper, Al Gore. Maybe he would have signed off on some cash to fix the levees too, since he’s an obvious tool.

Yup, it would really suck. I bet he even would have been Washington insider enough to follow the example of that other asshole Democrat Bill Clinton and appoint a head of FEMA with relevant fucking experience. Gore and Clinton fucked up so many things by using the experience of experts. Only the unimaginative and over-educated rely on qualified advice over gut instinct.

Yeah, you’re doing a heck of a job, Georgie.

One of the central difficulties of being me (apart from the vast amount of fabulousness that makes me the envy of the world) is that my neurotic core is masked by a slightly cool exterior.

Today I ventured into a world I generally avoid — a work party. The president was having an end of summer fete at his lovely home, and I figured what the fuck, I should go. My reasoning was many-fold (or should that be manifold, or is a manifold an engine part?). Anyway a bunch of things ran through my mind.

One was, shit, here you are in a strange new world, why not act like them and be friendly. (Even though some Bay Area friendly is suspect. I’m pretty sure “Have a nice day,” was coined in this ‘hood above all others.)

Another was, fucking shit, one of the things that made my last day job fucking awesome (in the sense where awesome means gave me so much to whine about and scream about in sheer agony) was the total lack of genuine camraderie. The big company summer picnic one year involved their clearing a small parking lot, putting up a tent, lining up no more than five bales of hay for decoration and having lunch outdoors for roughly 1.5 hours. Woo doggies, what a party.

Their Christmas party (excuse me, non-demoninational holiday party) required tickets to be purchased in advance to the tune of $10-25, which did not include a cash bar.

The leader of my group for the first few years I was there said she was having an open house at her place to bring the group together and thank them for their work the minute she moved to a new place. For a few more years after moving, there were some “maybe next years.”

Finally, I headed to the party, because I so desperately want to be just like all of the other kids, a feeling I haven’t shaken since about 2nd grade when I realized I wasn’t that much like the other kids.

It’s actually a rather fucked up neuroses in that I have a wicked non-conformist streak, which I’m gathering at the age of 41 ain’t likely slipping itself under a bushel any time soon. On top of that, that little quirk makes me appear far more hip and cool and radical than I may in fact be. (As an example of that, throughout most of my adult life I’ve dropped into conversations where it was assumed (a) I’ve tried drugs, (b) the drugs have probably been diverse and varied and ( c) I may indeed be a sexual freak.)

In truth, I’ve been in the presence of many more drugs than I myself would have consumed, because at the end of the day I’m kind of a pussy and feared the consequences. Ditto on the freaky-deaky, kinky sports scene. (Yeah, yeah, I acknowledge that this upstanding young man once walked me through the internal dialogue that answers to your inner freak. But, I still contend I’m more dullard than swinger.)

So, here I am at a party, talking like I have some ability to converse. Looking like I have some comfort with myself. Appearing for all intents and purposes as though I were cool enough to drink wine and relax on a sunny, Sunday afternoon.

I might have looked so cool in my pink sunglasses, jeans low on my hips and basic black that others were probably worried what I thought of them.

No one generally suspects that my internal voices are looking only for me to fit in.

Sad, huh?

By the way, for the first time I think ever I did the work social thing in the company of a man, the best boy-o in the world, good old M.

I have completely mixed feelings about the legitimacy a relationship seems to bestow on my current life. I’m happy for the relationship, of course, but why is my man’s existence a reflection on my normalcy.

We ain’t really come that long a way, baby.

The subtitles should be easier to see and read…

Damn, had I had my head on straight a few months back, I would have said “See ya later, boy” to M. and moved to D.C. instead of Cali. My new career aspiration is to become a piece of deadwood floating among the stream of political hacks unleashed by the current Whitehouse.

Jesus fucking Christ are there any more bullet-proof jobs in the world right now than getting a Bush appointment? “Brownie” wasn’t fired, he was just dragged back to Washington, DC because of all the pressing emergencies to manage there. For a minute, I almost gave GW a little credit, thinking he might have been being sarcastic with the “You’re doing a heck of a job, Brownie.”

Alas, no, apparently GWB is the one man in the country finding management skill in the person of Michael Brown.

Shit, I ain’t never been responsible for a whole city and fucked it up enough to let snipers, looters and dead bodies pile up. Nonetheless, I’ve had my ass hauled into Human Resources. But, if I had a sweet, sweet ride like a Bush appointment, I could probably fire at will and get away with it.

Michael Brown and Karl Rove, remember him, the guy who teetered on treason by revealing the name of a CIA operative, anyway, those two are probably hoisting a Glenfiddich, or whatever the power elite drink, patting each other on the back and smiling over their Teflon coats.

By the way, between Jeff Gannon and Michael Brown it begs the question, does anyone vet resumes that pass through the executive branch? My resume was thoroughly checked, and I’m filing papers for people who might get to take a meeting with politicians a degree of separation from the Whitehouse. But, they get to walk right through the secure doors of power with a paper of lies, a wink and some fawning.

Shee-it, Mugabe’s government seems less corrupt and the Egyptian elections more authentic.

Here’s the video link again. I changed some of the titles, so that they would be easier to read (I hope). It’s a bitch once everything is compressed down to web streaming.

I really would like feedback, if anyone gives a shit.

Mostly these days I think about the Rapture. I think about the righteous seated on the right hand of the father, making a clean getaway as shit storms down in furious flames of destruction on every thing else.

At least, I’m figuring Armageddon is lying just around the corner. Why else would a demon (’cause really he ain’t good enough to be a full fledged anti-Christ) be living in the Whitehouse making the world worse with mayhem and neglect?

Shit, speaking of signs of the coming Apocalypse, I just got a phone call from Bukowski’s in Inman Square, Cambridge. Anyone in Cambridge comedy knows what that means. I’m all tingly hearing from some of my favorite men (who I don’t live with except in my heart).

So, there’s the big picture of gloom and doom and we are all got to die. And, there’s the little picture. The end of the world in which I’ve had a headache for two days and mentioned to convince myself it’s probably terminal, but that I will Kevorkian my way to peace while whatever foul and pestilent force lives off of my weakened flesh. In other words, I might be getting a cold or some other virus.

The plus side of the potential cold is that it’s source is probably the office Typhoid Mary who swept through work in a whorl of damp tissues, because meetings can’t be missed or whatever. The beauty of this germ transaction is I’m starting to hold a grudge against her any way. In fact, she is rather ripe for caricature and some sick hybrid of office reality spawned in my imagination would have in the past been written about in these very virtual pages.

But, I am reformed and no longer make grand sport and grander hyperbole about office politics. Instead, charming motherfucker that I am, and all smiling ball of firey sunshine, I joked about the Ivy League with some on on the phone who, in fact, was schooled at such a place. Rather than writing about Ivy League motherfuckers, I figured I could befriend one.

Next, I will rescue kittens and bunnies from the swirling sewage around New Orleans and hug them into robust health.

Anyway, I should mainline some more Advil and calculate exactly how my suicide will be hatched.

(Oh, one last thing. Just in case any one out there didn’t already know that I am intellectually challenged, oafish and an uncultured clod. Last night M. was talking about naming hurricanes, and I said “Well, when you were growing up, didn’t they name typhoons?” Falled by a pause and my continuing, “Oh, yeah, they must have, because there was the famous one, Typhoon Mary.”

Then, after a couple of minutes I realized exactly how stupid I am. Typhoon Mary? Jesus.)

NEVER MIND THE POST BELOW.

I had some upload issues.

AAARRRGGGHHHH.

For Memorial Day weekend this year, I played with guns (among other things).

I did a little videotaping, and I finally edited something that certainly amuses the fuck out of me. (And, I’m often my own worst critic.) If anyone out there sees this video and wants to comment or send an email, I’d appreciate it.

As I type this post, I am wearing a deep, creased frown of worry and inconsolable sadness. I am bereft.

I, along with my nation, mourn the loss of Chief Justice William H. Renquist. Bill, we hardly knew ye.

Now, I ain’t one to speak ill of the dead, so I won’t dwell on Nixon appointee Renquist’s legacy. But, fucking hell, I am sick in my heart to think of G.W. Bush getting not just an associate justice appointment on the bench, PLUS the Chief Justice.

People moaned and bitched and criticized Bill Clinton. But, at the end of his presidency, there seemed to be some tangible changes in the world. Good shit, too, like a budget surplus, opened channels of diplomacy and dialogues on health care and education.

GWB will leave a tangible legacy, as well. Dead people in Iraq, dead people at home, world-wide contempt for the U.S. at record highs, education at new lows (creationism, anyone?) and trillions in debt. Now, undoubtedly a Supreme Court more conservative than any since 1789 or so. He’d probably exhume and re-animate William Jenning Bryant to really bring back some god-fearing Christianity if he could.

If there is an “Intelligient Designer” he’s a great, big dick, or he really hates us here in the old U.S. of A.

A fine Monday holiday, this. Both M. and I have devoted uncalculated hours to good personal hygiene and grooming. Of our core compatibilities, vanity ranks pretty high.

I’ve been thinking about New Orleans, and saw the flick “The Skeleton Key” last night, which reminded me just how much of the area is swamp, river, lush bumps of land and more swamp. The San Mateo bridge here runs for miles and kind of reminds me of the bridge over Lake Ponchatrain. Although, here, it feels more terra firma on either side.

It’s kind of interesting that major parts of Boston are giant land fills built over marshes, where sand was dumped hundreds of years ago to build up a city. Same for San Francisco. But, for some reason, down in the bayous of Louisiana and the Missippi River, they didn’t build the ground up above sea level, they worked on holding the water back. Maybe it has something to do with the difference between ocean ports and fresh water, where it was relatively easy to build up Boston Harbor and San Francisco Bay. Don’t know. Maybe it’s just one of those things that’s part circumstance and cultural attitude and back in the 1700s, they were just digging on the swamps and voodoo instead of piling up sand.

I’ve also been thinking a fair bit about globalization and what not involving the world. ‘Course, these days, there’s a bit of me that’s getting paid to think about the globe.

Among the many individual stories that depress the fuck out of anyone with a conscience who doesn’t believe any other human deserves the fate of scrounging for food and shelter in a fetid swamp of flood waters, I’m perversely cheered by the international response. Although, all the countries hating on the U.S. and Bush (for good fucking reasons) must be ratcheting up their disgust 100 fold for our failure to care for our own. Seriously, though, Thailand, Sri Lanka and Indonesia are kicking in the donations to help out a US disaster.

The U.S. should learn something.

The only other thing on my mind is settling down after a buddy visited from Boston. It’s weird to have a little bit of my old home show up in the new one. Didn’t make me homesick, it made me sure that I did the right thing.